


Of Monsters, Of Men

by caxandra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Dark Harry Potter, Eventual Romance, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Attend Hogwarts Together, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle Grow Up Together, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Morally Grey Harry Potter, No character bashing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, War with Grindelwald, Wizarding Wars (Harry Potter), World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:47:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caxandra/pseuds/caxandra
Summary: From growing up in the same orphanage to attending Hogwarts, everything Harry Peters and Tom Riddle do, they do together. Together, under the ever growing threat of war, they discover who they are and more importantly, who they want to be.But as the Dark Lord Grindelwald looms ever closer from beyond the horizon, decisions must be made for the good of society, which Harry and Tom quickly find out is not as easy as it seems. After all, there is no good and evil. There is only power and those too weak to seek it.A coming of age story set in 1940s Britain about two orphan boys whose fates are deeply intertwined, for the better or worse.Updates every Friday!
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 89
Kudos: 187
Collections: Legacy's Interest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely, lovely Sayuri_Tamano and Occamaestro for being my betas. Much love!
> 
> I update every Friday night. 
> 
> PS: Additional tags will be added as the story progresses.

**Summer 1936**

The steamy afternoon summer heat radiated to each of Harry’s extremities. He scratched at his threadbare uniform, the coarse cotton itching the hollow of his throat. Sweat flowed in small rivulets down his body, staining his clothing. He slumped on the wooden bench, hunched over to inspect the deck of cards on the rickety wooden table. 

He flipped a queen onto the pile of upturned cards. _Slap!_ His hand hit the deck, Tom’s hand landing on top of his not soon after. He smiled, ignoring the sting of pain. 

“Yes! A double,” he crowed. 

He added the pile of cards to his deck and waited for Tom’s move. 

But before Tom could flip his card over, Billy Stubbs walked over to them, slouching against their table. Harry frowned slightly as Billy rubbed his sweaty hands against the side of the table.

“Can I play?” Billy asked.

Like a persistent mosquito in the lazy summer heat that couldn’t be easily swatted, Billy Stubbs never learned to leave Harry and Tom alone, no matter how many times he was rejected. The wretched eleven year old with ruddy cheeks always asked the same insufferable question: if he could join their game. It was as if Billy did not know what the word “no” meant.

Irritated at what felt like the tenth interruption, Harry rolled his eyes.

“Go away, Billy. We’re busy.” Tom retorted before resuming, placing down a jack. Tom’s mouth curved in triumph as he slapped the deck. The giant pile containing half of the deck went straight into Tom’s hand. Harry groaned. 

“Interference! You distracted me. Go away,” Harry said.

Billy ignored him. “Tom, can I play? I’m better than Harry.” 

“No. You’re worse. I’d win in two minutes if I played you,” Tom replied, never taking his eyes off Harry as he flipped his card down on the table.

“Just leave already,” Harry snapped, irritated as Billy once again distracted him from slapping the deck. Harry stared mournfully as Tom collected his joker. “We don’t want you here.”

Flustered, Billy’s neck and cheeks reddened. He stomped his feet and spat, “Nobody wants to play with you freaks anyways. Why do you think it’s only you two that ever play together?”

Harry retorted, “At least I have someone I always can play with. You switch friends like Mrs. Cole switches bottles of gin.”

Billy yelled incoherently, his words garbled into a mess of unintelligible noises. He reached over and snatched Harry’s glasses off of his face, dangling them by the earpiece.

“Give it back,” Harry said, grabbing at his glasses. He missed by a few inches.

Billy sneered. “I don’t think so, ungrateful freak.”

Billy dropped the glasses and stepped on them. Harry reached out again to snatch his glasses back, but fell backwards off the bench onto the floor. He could only watch helplessly as Billy’s foot descended upon his glasses in slow motion.

As the crunch of glass resonated across the harsh concrete, the rest of the orphans observed, all deathly silent, their all-seeing eyes causing Harry to flush bright red. Lying on the cold concrete, the pinpricks from the glass shards painfully punctured his palms. 

Harry got to his feet, ignoring the pain in his extremities. Billy roared with laughter, pointing at Harry and doubling over. This broke the silence of the orphans. One by one, they followed Billy’s lead. The room filled with the chorus of snickers, giggles, and cruel laughter.

Boiling anger seized his body while utter humiliation colored his features. 

“You-You!” Harry spat.

He launched himself at Billy, who sidestepped his attack, grin growing smugger as Harry fell down again. First his knees hit the concrete hard, then his hands. He couldn’t help but grimace at the medley of mottled bruises that would inevitably appear in the following hours and the stabbing feeling in his palms that flared as the splinters were pushed deeper into his flesh.

“Think twice before you refuse me again, freak,” Billy taunted. He sauntered away, like a cat boasting its latest kill. The rest of the orphans dispersed from the area, uninterested now that Billy had one upped Harry.

His vision was tainted red. His hands shook as he stared at the broken bits, from anger or pain or both, he was not sure. His lenses were shattered into jagged shards. The tiny pieces of glass were coarse, rough, and irritating as they bit into his palms, and they got everywhere. The rim was bent inwards, while the end pieces were bent at unnatural angles. The nose pads had fallen off.

“How _dare_ he!” he seethed.

He wouldn’t be able to see more than ten feet in front of himself now! There was no way that Mrs. Cole would allow him to get another pair of glasses. Her hatred of him ran deep. She always sent disapproving and irritated looks whenever she had to deal with him. She would make him clean the glass and laugh when he told her it had pricked his hands.

He turned to Tom, desperate for a solution. “What am I gonna do?” 

His only response was silence. Tom pushed his bench out, got up, and walked away, head high. He never looked back. The _bastard_.

Harry gnashed his teeth and crouched back on the ground. Anger and humiliation clawed at his insides, leaving what felt like a trail of bloodied and battered flesh in its wake as it struggled to erupt from his roiling gut.

The edge of the glass shards cut deeper into his palm as he clenched his hands. Crimson blood welled at each wound site.

Harry despaired. _God, I wish this never happened!_ He lamented. Billy had publicly humiliated him. Worse, Tom had shunned him in his moment of need. What was next? Getting kicked out onto the streets? The next few weeks were going to be hell. If only he could find a way to fix everything… including his glasses… 

He closed his eyes, avoiding looking at the sight of his failure and shame, feeling it taunt him through the flimsy barrier of his eyelids. 

“How did you fix it?” Tom’s voice bordered on a hiss, startling Harry’s eyes open. Tom had walked back over and was gesturing wildly. Tom’s gaze was focused on Harry, his lips and brows tensed in shock.

On the ground, Harry’s glasses were fixing themselves. The curved rims slowly unbent as the nose pads reattached to the pad arms. Large glass shards slowly rose from the floor and tiny glass shards from the insides of his palm to fit themselves neatly into rims, like placing the correct puzzle pieces into a puzzle. 

Smiling, Harry cradled the repaired glasses, avoiding touching the newly fixed pair to his bloodied palm. The consuming anger in his body was replaced by the fluttering warmth of joy and wonder with every reverent breath. 

“Tell me how!” Tom hissed, his expression fierce and dumbstruck as Harry’s attention shifted back to him once again.

An itch grew at the tip of Harry’s tongue, spreading through his mouth and along his tongue, down his throat and into his gut where it finally stopped and festered. His hands tingled and his eyes watered. He wanted to scratch himself all over, shrug off the feeling, shake himself out, but he found that he couldn’t. He was stuck in place as a pressure on his throat appeared.

“I-I don’t know how!” he choked, his voice finally slipping past his teeth. As soon as he spoke, the uncomfortable feeling faded. He doubled over coughing from the effort, thankful that the itching had ceased. His stomach settled, leaving his tongue a heavy weight dragging in his mouth. His hands stopped tingling. His eyes cleared.

Unsettled, Harry lowered his head to gaze at his fingers, away from Tom. A closer inspection proved that his glasses were truly fixed ─ spotless and squeaky clean.

Tom cocked his head. “I suppose you really don’t,” he muttered sullenly, trailing off at the end.

“Look at me,” Tom demanded. Compelled by the same strange itch, his face rotated upwards until he was under the intensity of Tom’s eagle-eyed glare.

He wilted slightly at Tom’s expression, wishing it would stop. He didn’t like the weird feeling. None of the same symptoms as previously occurred, and the slowly growing pressure abated. 

His continued silence only increased Tom’s outrage before his face cycled through a long series of emotions: shock, anger, jealousy, greed, joy. He finally settled on a shrewd, eager expression. 

“You’re like me. You must be. You must have the Special Power like I do,” Tom whispered, seemingly entranced by Harry holding his repaired glasses.

“What is this ‘Special Power’?” 

Tom didn’t respond, too busy complaining petulantly, “I thought I was the only one.”

“What is it?” he demanded, impatient at Tom’s unresponsiveness.

Tom blinked. He stared straight at Harry and slowly smiled, revealing his signature Cheshire Cat grin. Chills ran down Harry’s back, goosebumps rising on his upper arms in spite of the heat. His smile could only mean huge trouble.

“Come.”

Harry put his glasses on and followed Tom into their room, hunching his body and ducking his head to avoid the gazes of the other orphans. He gritted his teeth. Getting Tom to give up information voluntarily was harder than pulling teeth and twice as painful.

As he stepped through the doorway, the wooden door slammed shut behind him. The whoosh of wind hit his back, chilling his sweaty clothes that clung stubbornly to his skin. He shivered, goosebumps rising and dotting his skin as chills raced down his back.

Neither Tom nor he could have shut the door. 

“What was that?” There was no possible way that could have happened, just like there was no possible way his glasses repaired themselves. Yet they both happened.

Tom bared his teeth in his savage smile. “The Special Power.”

“Oh God,” Harry whispered, his posture straightening as his shoulders tensed. Fear and shock clutched at his trembling body, their harsh fingers trapping him in his cage of flesh and bone. “You can do things.”

Tom’s smile widened, exposing even more sharp teeth. “I can do more than that. I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them.” 

His breath caught in his throat. “That’s why everyone leaves you alone.” Sweat slicked his already clammy palms. “The rumors are true.”

Tom spread his arms out wide, still grinning. “I make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I hurt them if I want to.” 

His heartbeat pounded like a jackhammer hoping to escape the confines of his chest. 

For a couple moments, moments that felt like eternity stretching, he hesitated. Finally, he spoke. “Will you hurt me?”

Tom sobered, his face returning to the blank expression that was so familiar. “You know the answer to that.”

If Tom wanted to hurt him, he would have done so already. Slamming the door was a threat and warning, not an attack. Harry slowly exhaled in relief, careful not to look directly into the cold, burning gaze observing his every expression. He said nothing for the next few minutes, familiarizing himself with Tom’s arched brows, smooth forehead, and straight nose.

“What do you want from me?” Harry asked at last.

Tom cocked his head. “Guess. You only get one answer.”

Harry thought hard, brows furrowing. Tom found someone like himself, Harry, and had extended an invitation. But why? 

_Keep the competition close. Control them best you can._

“Can I do other things with the power?” 

Tom grinned─ all sharp teeth and potential violence. “A question, not an answer. Yes you can.”

Harry jolted. The answer was clear as day. He wondered why he didn’t see it earlier.

“You want to teach me.”

Tom nodded, his lips curving upwards slightly, evidently pleased at Harry’s cleverness. 

He scrutinized Tom, searching for evidence that Tom was lying. There was none. Only a relaxed yet confident gait and enigmatic half-smile.

“What is it exactly?”

“The Special Power lets me do impossible things. Unexplainable things.” 

“But I’m not special,” he protested. He couldn’t have fixed his glasses. It must have been a fluke.

Tom tipped his head back and chuckled. “Who else could have repaired your glasses?”

“You. You have the power.”

Tom sneered. “I relished watching you suffer, because you were _weak_. You were nothing. But you proved me wrong.” _Had to prove me wrong_ went unsaid. “You _are_ special, just like me. Don’t you see?” 

He took three steps forward and held his hand out, eyes dark and electrifying, pinning Harry to the spot.

Tom’s words echoed in his head. _Don’t you see?_ And Harry saw. He saw it all: old memories flitting to the forefront of his mind─his uniform fitting him snugly after it hung loosely over his limbs, his hair growing two inches longer following the morning Mrs. Cole cut it, his body inexplicably warm when Mrs. Cole left him outside in the pounding rain, his glasses fixing themselves. He couldn’t deny it any longer, not to himself and much less to Tom.

“Teach me,” he whispered. Harry was overexposed, drowning in a sea of uncertainty, enticed by the promise of stability and solid ground, lured to the clashing rocks by the siren song of too-clever child’s words. It was too much. He wanted nothing to do with it, he wanted everything to do with it.

Harry’s grip firm and hand steady, he shook Tom’s proffered hand without any traces of hesitation.

A deal with the Devil couldn’t feel so right, like it was always meant to be, could it? When would it all come crashing down around him?

“The first lesson is to make things move without touching them. Watch.”

Tom grabbed a glass marble from his hidden, small cardboard box and walked back over to Harry. He placed it in the center of his palm and closed his eyes. 

The marble began to rise slowly and stopped at two inches above his open palm, his fingers curling slightly inwards as he did so. It slowly made its way down to his palm before it rose faster, reaching a distance of about a foot. His hand moved imperceptibly, and the marble flew across the room, back into the little cardboard box.

Harry's words died in the back of his throat. 

“ _This_ is the Special Power,” Tom gloated with a smug face. 

He watched in as the marble zipped from the box and back into Tom’s palm.

“Now you try,” Tom instructed, placing the marble in Harry’s palm. “Think very hard about the marble before raising it. Like how hard you had to think to get your glasses to repair themselves.”

Harry squinted at the marble. He concentrated on his thinking. _Rise, rise, rise into the air_. The marble lay flat in his palm, still and unmoving. Disappointment washed over him.

Tom tutted. “You need to want it to rise. You need to want it _badly_ ,” Tom emphasized.

Harry clenched the marble in a fist. He forcibly exhaled, not realizing that he was holding his breath. He steadied himself once more and relaxed his mind and fist, letting the marble lay in the center of his hand.

 _Rise, rise, RISE!_ he thought. The marble lay unmoving. It gleamed under the glow of the soft incandescent light bulbs, as if taunting him for his failure.

He grated his molars before relaxing his strained muscles. One more time, he promised himself. Again, he emptied his mind. _Rise into the air. You MUST rise,_ he thought, concentrating even harder, blocking out any sensation that wasn't the marble or his single-minded focus to raise it.

He grinned as the marble floated slowly off of his palm and wobbled an inch above his hand, dipping up and down erratically.

“Well done. But don’t verbalize your thoughts.” 

Startled by Tom’s words, his concentration broke. The marble softly plopped onto his palm.

“I did it,” he said.

Tom raised his brow. “Of course you did. Now, do it again, but this time, raise it higher and keep it steady.” 

Harry pouted before resuming his practice.

Over the next couple of weeks of heavy practice, Harry mastered the art of moving objects. He was finally as good as Tom: he could move the marble as slowly or as quickly as he wanted, fling it in several directions, and got rid of his involuntary hand movements. He also learned how to move other objects, including the cardboard box, books, and even the wardrobe by a couple inches after Tom showed him how. 

Tom told him, “The Special Power comes down to being a matter of will. Weight has nothing to do with it. If you don’t think you can lift it, then you won’t lift it.”

“The second lesson is to learn how to use the Special Power against other people,” Tom explained, a dark glint in his eyes.

“What if Mrs. Cole catches us?”

Tom sneered. “She won’t. Mrs. Cole’s drunk half the time. She’s as blind as a bat. Hell, she can’t tell me from Billy seventy percent of the time.”

“If you say so,” Harry said, wary of Tom’s eagerness.

“Anyways, what’s the point of the gift if you can’t use it to help yourself?” Tom challenged.

“Most people don’t think using it against others is ‘helping yourself’,” Harry pointed out.

“Don’t you want revenge against Billy? He’ll never bother you again.”

“Tom, I don’t know about this. I’ll be a bad person if I do.”

Tom slowly exhaled, visibly frustrated at Harry’s stubbornness. “Tell me, is Billy Stubbs a bad person?” 

“Yes,” Harry replied without thinking.

“Then he deserves it.”

“As much as we all do.”

Tom tutted. “But we’re better than him.”

Harry shook his head. 

Tom ignored him, continuing, “Besides, doing bad things to bad people makes us feel good.”

Harry squirmed, uncomfortable under Tom’s penetrating gaze. “It shouldn’t.”

Tom grinned lazily. “Don’t deny it, just do it.”

Harry gathered his courage. Even as Tom tried to entice him, he knew he had to stand up for what was right, for what he believed in.

“I can’t. It’s wrong. Wrong to use skills they don’t have against them.”

Tom’s nostrils flared. “You think the world is fair?” Tom sneered.

“The world isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean I need to be unfair,” Harry said with a steady voice.

“Don’t come crying back to me when Billy beats you up later. It’s not my fault if you’re naive and stupid,” he said, two faint spots of color appearing, dotting his pale cheeks light pink. Tom turned away, his fists clenched. 

Harry chewed his lip but let Tom storm off, cooling off from the sting of his rejection.

 _It’s better this way,_ he thought. _It’s not my way of doing things,_ he told himself.

Then why did it feel so wrong? Why did his mind tell him to run up to Tom and apologize? Would it really be that bad if he gave in?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise update! Expect a couple more of these in the following weeks, as I have a bunch of prewritten pre-Hogwarts chapters I want to churn out so that we can get to the juicy stuff. 
> 
> I will stick to the consistent weekly Friday updates once this passes, though.

**Fall 1936**

Three months later, when Billy finally succeeded in beating him up, Harry could say with complete certainty that his separation from Tom hurt more than any physical wound could. 

Billy Stubbs had always hated Harry, and Harry hated him right back. Even though they had always despised each other, Billy and his gang had never attacked him before─probably because they were too afraid of Tom to chance his wrath.

Now, however, Billy and his little gang had noticed Tom’s cease in protection and had shifted gears. They bullied Harry at every interval with taunts, pranks, and malicious harassment. Each time they tried to physically harm him, such as ripping his clothes, breaking his glasses, and stealing his possessions, Harry would fight back with his smarts and the Special Power. He had boundaries, and they were consistently being crossed. But every time he had to use the Special Power, guilt flared up. As much as he needed to protect himself, he didn’t want to become like Tom and terrorize everyone.

However, Harry did wonder how much he could take before his guilt would outweigh his beliefs. Tom ignoring his existence only furthered the tipping of the scales, his cold disdain a stark cry from their past interactions.

Before Harry had learned he had the Special Power, he had lived by the motto “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”— an unspoken agreement to a truce between the two, a necessity born out of the fact the overcapacity at the orphanage meant Harry would always share Room 27 with Tom. Until Harry fundamentally changed his worth in Tom’s eyes, the truce had been the law of the land for the past seven years. Harry followed the truce’s one rule religiously: he never, ever bothered Tom. He turned a blind eye to all the terrible, heinous deeds Tom conducted, content to abdicate all responsibility in righting wrongs to keep a comfortable and consistent peace. 

Tom’s side of the bargain was that he would return the favor. In those seven years, Tom had never once bothered Harry: neither taunting nor terrorizing him. The downside of this arrangement was that Tom never reached out either, choosing to just ignore Harry whenever the latter tried to talk. 

In that time, they had never grown closer than mutual acquaintances. Prior to the change a couple months ago, Tom was still as unapproachable and aloof as Harry remembered for all their time spent together, even when they had no opposing morals prying them apart. Now, Tom had chosen a newer, more tortuous route of pushing Harry over the edge: he denied Harry access to his collection of books and ceased their somewhat arbitrary yet enjoyable games. Harry had taken to spending his afternoons without a single companion.

In the past, Harry had never needed another companion beside Tom due to his sheer clinginess. Without Tom’s possessiveness, Harry knew he could have easily made many friends: he wasn’t unsociable or unkind. Tom’s feared reputation made it so that the other orphans had no choice but to withdraw entirely from interacting with Harry. 

Harry was truly alone, and he was miserable. Tom abandoned him, Billy bullied him, and the orphans continued ignoring him.

Thankfully, Tom did not use the Special Power against him, but Harry would have preferred that over the continued charade of silence. The hurt was fresh each time. It whittled away at the fiber of his being.

The one mercy Tom allowed was walking together back to the orphanage after school ended. Harry had no idea why this was the only occasion where Tom turned a blind eye, but he was not complaining. He took anything, everything that Tom would allow him with greedy hands. 

The school day began like any other. But that day, after class ended, Tom stuck around for a few minutes to ask the English teacher a couple questions. As a result, Harry was left loitering outside in a corner of the school grounds to wait for him. 

Billy, although not the smartest tool in the shed, had enough years of experience and brain cells to exploit this brief separation between Tom and Harry.

Billy’s meaty hands grabbed Harry’s shoulder and left side and dragged him across the corner, into the narrow alley. Harry fell, unable to balance himself, but caught himself on his hands and knees. He dodged the first kick, but couldn’t stop as the punches rained upon his vulnerable position, along his back, shoulders, and head. 

Harry blindly tried to overturn himself so he wasn’t facing down the dirty alley, but his assailant did not make it easy. He flailed his legs, hoping to get a few strong kicks into his attacker. The grunt he received was also met by a brief period of respite from the flurry of blows. 

In that time, he managed to stagger back to his feet and see that Billy was his attacker. Enraged that only Billy would be stupid enough to ambush him, Harry landed multiple jabs on Billy. The sweet music of Billy’s groans and grunts as Harry’s fists met his chest and gut only fueled Harry further.

Between their bouts of punches, Harry knew he was at a disadvantage. He had taken the first hit, weighed less, and was shorter than Billy. Billy slowly edged Harry back farther into the alley. It was inevitable.

Harry was confident that he could escape the alleyway unharmed by taking a complicated route back to the orphanage, but he refused to let Billy make him into a weak coward that fled at the first sight of danger.

And in any case, he would not let Billy think he ever had a chance of winning. Harry packed more force into his punches, landing a satisfyingly solid haymaker on Billy’s solar plexus. Billy lurched backwards, gasping for air. He collapsed on the ground and curled into the fetal position.

Harry curled his lip at the pathetic sight. But what he saw out of the corner of his eye made him seethe. Reinforcements.

Eric Whalley, in all his meaty, piggish glory was charging straight towards him around the corner of the turn of the alleyway.

Harry wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. He had won fair and square! The fight should have been over, if Billy had any honor or integrity. But he didn’t.

If he hadn’t incapacitated Billy when he fortunately did, he would have undoubtably been beaten into a pulp by both of them. 

Harry skirted around Billy’s prone form, deeper into the alleyway, forcing Eric to sprint to keep up with him. Once he was a suitable distance away from Billy, Harry stood his ground and waited for Eric to approach him.

Both boys circled each other, wary of being the first to throw the first punch. He decided this would not do, so he bared his teeth at Eric. 

“You can’t touch me, you stupid twit,” Harry taunted, mouth drawn in vicious lines.

It was enough to spur Eric into action. Eric bellowed and sprinted blindly in Harry's direction. Harry evaded Eric's first attack by sidestepping him and ducked to avoid his second jab. While remaining crouched, he managed to deliver a punch of his own right back to Eric. Eric doubled over, wheezing from the hit to his gut, and Harry seized the opportunity. 

Harry kicked Eric to the ground, and began smacking Eric wherever he could with his school books. Who knew his mathematics textbook could be so useful? Amidst the litany of pained moans, Harry gritted his teeth, unstoppable in his tirade. Eric’s pleas for him to stop went ignored. He had no mercy for someone that would have done the exact same thing if their positions were reversed. 

However, Eric grappled with the textbook and managed to wrench it free from Harry’s grip, slapping his forearm with it. Hissing from the sharp sting of pain, Harry reared back and whipped his head towards the increasingly noisy footsteps. Billy had gotten back up and was running full speed in his direction, his stance indicating he was intent to tackle Harry to the ground.

With a mighty cry, Harry jerked the textbook back at the last possible moment. He ran.

Running was his last option. And he hated every second of it. He hated that Eric and Billy made him into a cowardly dog, tail tucked between his legs as he sprinted. 

As his feet carried him through the narrow walls of the alleyway, he approached a Y intersection. He smiled, knowing that the right turn was the right way back to the orphanage. He was going to make it out unharmed. His racing heart grew even faster from the prospect of total victory. He was finally going to outsmart his attackers and it was going to _work_.

Blocking out the yells and grunts of his pursuers, he turned the right corner, made another right turn, then left turn. But his exhilaration transformed into dread when he ran directly into a dead end. His luck had run out. Fear clutched him, causing his already thunderous heart to begin pumping even faster.

This was the worst possible outcome. Billy and Eric were going to catch up to him and take their sweet, sweet time with him. The walk back to the orphanage would be the ultimate walk of shame. Although, he would be lucky if he could walk by the end of it. Already, Eric and Billy were closing in on him quickly. He spun around and braced himself for the incoming blows, determined to give his last stand his all. All in all, it had been a good run.

_God, how he wished he could be anywhere else! Anywhere but here._

He shut his eyes as a whoosh of strong wind hit his face. Just as Harry heard the shouts round the corner, they vanished just as quickly as they came. Unnerved by the sudden and abrupt silence, Harry frowned and opened his eyes, body tensed as he expected nothing but cruel tricks.

Rows of dilapidated apartments and bent street lamps spanned the entirety of his vision. Looking down, he saw he was standing on the school roof. It was the ugly view of Bethnal Green from atop the school. 

Tom was standing near the streetlamp closest to Harry, a harsh scowl etched across his face. Harry’s breath caught in his chest. He scrambled down the side and sprinted to where Tom was waiting.

“Tom,” he panted. 

“You’re late,” Tom snapped, staring scornfully at his disheveled state and heaving form.

Through uneven breaths, Harry gasped, “I appeared on the school roof after Billy and Eric trapped me in a dead end.” Harry waved his hands wildly, not comprehending the situation in the slightest, but immensely grateful for it.

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Tell me everything,” he demanded.

In a rare act of benevolence, Tom added Harry’s book to his stack and braced Harry’s hobbling walk on the way back. However, it was probably because Harry looked like he couldn’t walk another step. Tom’s actions were humiliations meant to highlight Harry’s weakness and force him to acknowledge it. But Harry hoped that there was a tiny piece of Tom that genuinely wanted to help him. 

As the adrenaline faded from his system, his aches and pains grew in severity. Though these had been previously ignored by his body in the heat of the moment, the throbbing pain in his right ankle increased to unbearable lengths.

Harry took great care to relate exactly what happened, detail by excruciating detail to Tom. 

“... And finally—craziest part—I appeared on the roof!”

“What?” Tom hissed.

“I don’t know how. I remember being so scared and wanting to be anywhere else. And suddenly, I was standing atop the school.”

Harry grew more and more puzzled as Tom remained silent, keeping his eyes straight ahead. When Tom eventually spoke, “you will teach me that,” the words came out of his mouth stiffly. Evidently Tom was hung up over the fact that Harry could do something he could not.

“You’re still better than me,” reassured Harry, rolling his eyes. Vindictively, he said, “I’ll teach you if you teach me the second lesson.”

He wanted vengeance for what happened to him and what would have happened. Billy needed to learn that ungrateful freaks like him fought back.

Tom was right. The world wasn’t fair, and it was useless to try. Fairness only caused Harry pain. The nice orphans that reciprocated his kindness and fairness were few and far between, common bullies like Billy and Eric a dime a dozen. Every time he tried to be fair to Billy, Billy repaid it by hurting him. The cold, hard truth stung, but the best life lessons were always painfully true. 

And even if he still felt uneasy about the whole prospect, well, Billy had started it. It was only fair to return the favor.

Tom shot him a smug look. “Deal. It was only a matter of time before you came to your senses.”

In their cramped room, Harry and Tom discussed plans for revenge. They argued back and forth before deciding on the perfect plan: on Halloween, they would kill Billy’s rabbit. It was a perfect plan of action, since they would wait around a week before executing their plan, enough to lower their suspicions. Just when Billy and Eric would have thought they’d passed the tide without facing any repercussions, Harry and Tom would strike. 

Tom said, “Let’s hang it across the rafters.” 

Harry pursed his lips. “We do not need to traumatize any orphans who aren’t named Billy or Eric. This is _my_ revenge. Let me decide what I want for once.”

Tom dipped his head in acquiescence and waited for Harry to respond.

Harry eventually said, “Why don’t we hang it in their wardrobe? They won’t know how we did it. They’ll be terrified.”

“You’ll have to let me take a rabbit foot then.” 

“Why do you need the foot?”

A grin slowly spread over Tom’s face, painting him as dark as the night of a new moon. “I’ll stick it on Billy’s pillow.”

“And how are you gonna do that? Cut it off?” he scoffed, quashing his queasy feelings.

When Tom did not reply, instead choosing to remain silent and straight-faced, Harry groaned. His stomach roiled. 

“Come on, don’t do this to me. I won’t let you do that. That’s taking it way too far. Just hang the rabbit and we’ll be done with it.”

Tom raised his left brow. “Was it ‘taking it too far’ when Billy ambushed you with Eric?”

“Yes. But what you’re suggesting is too much. This is my revenge, not yours,” Harry said, clicking his teeth together. He was terribly conflicted: his thirst for vengeance screamed for him to sate his primal hunger while his morals pleaded with him to stand firm and not give in.

Tom’s eyes flashed. “Oh, but it is. I have not forgotten when Billy spilled that disgusting gruel on my best white shirt.” He paused. “Of course I punished him for that, but one can never be punished too many times for their crimes.”

“That occurred at least two years ago!”

Tom sneered. “And? You are the reason why I can’t have nice things. You know, I had originally planned to take two rabbit feet, one for us and one for Billy.”

“Then I’m glad I temper you.”

Tom smirked. “Not for long. Nothing else compares to the feeling of a well-planned revenge.”

“Revenge doesn’t feel that good to me.”

“It does, but you just refuse to admit so. Revenge is the purest form of euphoria. When you execute everything correctly, the high of utter satisfaction floods your body, overwhelms you in all the best ways.”

Harry crossed his arms in place of a response, unsure of how to respond.

Frustrated, Tom said, “You already understand exactly what I mean, word by word, but you simply refuse to admit it. I don’t understand it at all.” 

“I’m not like you,” Harry said. “And I won’t ever be.”

“You will be,” Tom promised, his tone ominous. “But don’t take my word for it, take Billy’s word for it. He’ll tell you that you’re exactly like me.”

Harry jolted as Tom smirked. “That’s why when Mrs. Cole asked me two years ago if I wanted to change rooms and I said yes, Billy came to me, begging me to change my mind.” He swallowed. “He begged and begged without explaining why. He only said that he’d do whatever I wanted so that he wouldn’t be paired with you.”

“That day, I taught him to never, ever, bother me again. If you try, you can do it too.”

At Tom’s words, Harry felt the last of his resistance crumble into dust. He breathed a soft, trembling sigh.

“Okay.”

On the night of Halloween, both Harry and Tom stayed up late, waiting well into the witching hour before making their move. Both crept across the floorboards as silent as mice as they approached Billy’s room. 

Harry twisted the doorknob, but found that it was locked. He stepped back and allowed Tom to open the door. Using the special power, Tom assumed an intense look of concentration, and a minute later, the soft pop of a lock indicated the door was opened.

Harry grinned at Tom, hoping he could see it through the moonlight. Tom grinned back.

Once both boys slipped into the room, Tom wrinkled his nose at the mess of the room Billy and Eric shared, but quickly located the rabbit, which was sleeping in its cage, it’s furry face pressed against its front paws, eyes closed in the presence of two predators.

As he stared at the rabbit, biting his lip, he realized he did not want it to die. This spat was between Billy and him, not the rabbit. It was so peaceful and innocent, blissfully unaware of its fate in its little cage. The small animal snuggled against its blanket, a section that must have been ripped from Billy’s own blanket, as both were the same hideous off-white color.

But it was too late for any second thoughts. Tom had made up his mind. He had too.

“Come on,” Tom muttered impatiently, waving his hand.

Harry gathered the extra bed sheets laying around and began to cut them into long strips with the knife Tom had stolen from the kitchen earlier that day. 

While he worked, Tom concentrated on the rabbit. Tom had told him that he was able to put animals into deep sleep with his mind if he wished hard enough. Because Tom didn’t have time to teach Harry this yet, he said he would do this step alone. 

Essentially, Tom had explained the process as imagining “coaxing the rabbit to sleep deeper”. As Tom raised his hand to focus on the rabbit, it slowed its intake of breaths, eventually to a state of almost zero movement. When Tom motioned he was confident that the rabbit would not wake up while handling it, he grabbed the animal and then reached for the knife from Harry.

Harry put down the extra fabric strips under Tom to hopefully catch the blood.

Harry closed his eyes as Tom sawed the rabbit’s foot off. The repetitive noises of sawing flesh and bone filled the room over the quiet noise of Billy and Eric’s snores.

If he concentrated hard enough, he was sure he could hear a faint screaming noise in the background. It sounded like a rabbit.

_Oh God, the rabbit was screaming, why was it screaming, it was dead!_

“Do you hear anything?” he asked Tom, who shook his head in reply. 

“Are you sure?” Tom nodded. 

“Should I be?” asked Tom.

Harry shook his head. “No…” He trailed off. “Forget it.”

Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was a rabbit screaming. Screaming and screaming even though he was the only one who could hear it, no one except him.

He focused on measuring his inhales and exhales, resisting the urge to clap his hands over his ears. The screaming did not abate. It rose in volume, getting slightly louder and louder with each cry until Harry couldn’t tune it out.

“I’m done,” Tom whispered. His voice was a pleasant break from the screaming. 

The light of the full moon illuminated Tom, who was holding the dead rabbit and two of its severed feet: the lucky and unlucky foot. The black sheen of blood gleamed in the moonlight. Splatters and droplets had gotten everywhere. They stained Tom’s shirt, the concrete floor, the rabbit’s fur coat, and the extra strips of bed sheets. 

“Help me.” At these words, Harry snapped out of his musings. Thankfully, the screaming had reduced to small whimpers, barely audible in Tom’s renewed presence. 

He helped Tom string the strips of cut cloth around the rabbit and wooden bar until he was positive it could hang unsupported in the wardrobe. The rabbit was cooler to the touch, the warm blood drained from its body. They positioned the dead and mutilated rabbit so that its drooping head, missing foot, bloodied body, and limp positioning would be the first sight to greet Billy when he woke. 

While he was helping Tom, Harry wondered how it would have felt to watch the rabbit fight back, squirm and wriggle against the cloth, desperate to find a way to escape its inescapable bounds.

The screams had stopped. Harry grabbed the towel from his pocket and began cleaning the dark blood from the floor and walls. Tom washed his shirt and slipped the rabbit foot into his palm.

They cleaned up religiously, erasing every trace of blood and fur, scrubbing it from the floorboards and disposing of the bloodied bed sheets. When they finished, the room looked exactly as it had when they had entered.

As they relocked the door and crept back to their room, Harry could have sworn he heard the rabbit scream loudly one last time before there was blissful silence.

The next morning, Billy and Eric were not seen at breakfast or anywhere else for the rest of the day. Billy and Eric both were excused from Sunday Mass. However Tom and Harry weren’t, and they rolled their eyes as the bishop preached fervently about denouncing the Devil and his holiday, Halloween.

At dinner, Eric and Billy were subdued and refused to glance at Tom and Harry’s direction. The other children turned their fearful glances at Harry and Tom. No one dared disturb them that day. No one even dared talk. The mess hall was eerily silent, only disrupted by the occasional hushed whisper.

The fearful looks at him were uncomfortable, but bearable. It was something new, getting used to the way Tom was treated.

Although it was nice to see that Eric and Billy were obedient and subdued, their minds on anything but revenge, it was startling. Startling to know that he was pleased by their submission. Startling to know he _could_ be pleased by submission. Tom was right: doing bad things to bad people felt good, even though it shouldn’t have. He was so conflicted. He didn’t know what to think anymore.

That night, he dreamt of a screaming rabbit. When he looked down, he saw he was the one sawing the rabbit foot off, slick, slippery blood tainting his busy hands.

He whispered to Tom, “Let’s go back to our room.” 

Tom raised his eyebrows at him.

“Alright,” Tom said. “But I would have liked to see them cower longer.”

Harry watched as Tom preened at the fearful obedience of the other orphans. They lowered their heads and attempted to hide, shrinking down and hunching their backs as Tom and Harry placed their dirty dishes in the kitchen and walked upstairs to Room 27. 

When Tom asked Harry, “Do you want to watch me put the rabbit foot on Billy’s pillow?” Harry shook his head.

“No. I’ll sleep.”

He didn’t want to be reminded of his failings. He didn’t want to be reminded that he was a bad person. He always tried to be good, but being good was so, so hard. He wanted to forget that he was conflicted about being happy about bad things happening, things he had caused.

Tom tsked. “Your loss.” Tom had no such qualms, however, which is why Harry didn’t want to be like Tom. He didn’t want to become so obsessed with inflicting pain and punishment on those he thought deserved it. _It isn’t right_ , he thought.

Tom exited their room, the soft shutting of the door indicating he had left. 

Harry stared at the cracked ceiling, eyes wide open. If he focused hard enough, he heard the rabbit begin screaming again, continuing with its rapid shrieks even though no one had come to save it. He shivered.

He clenched his eyes shut and tossed and turned, trying his best to tune it out and fall asleep. But he remained awake, eyes clenched shut and body hunched into the fetal position, unable to ignore the cries of the rabbit. As chills raced down his spine, he prayed that something, anything would quieten the noises.

At last, the door creaked open with a soft creak. His rapidly beating heart rate soothed immediately. Tom was back, finally.

When Tom had quietly slipped into his bottom bunk, the screams stopped entirely, silence replacing the previous noise.

But the silence was no better a fate than the screaming. The eerie stillness of the night taunted him with its unearthliness, the absolute blackness of the room seemingly about to engulf and digest him. He buried himself deeper under his blankets. _Was this what death felt like?_

He had been so eager for silence as the rabbit screamed, but in the absence of sound, he wished for the rabbit back, for anything to break the terrible silence that grew larger and wider by the moment.

The preternatural silence draped his body like a second skin, suffocating Harry under his blankets. Until the first rays of light at dawn peeked through the blinds, Harry remained wide awake, wholly petrified by demons that lurked in the sounds of screaming and utter nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys like teasers for the next chapter in this section? I'm curious.


	3. Chapter 3

**Spring 1937**

As winter thawed to spring, Harry and Tom explored the limits of the power they were blessed with. Since the Halloween Rabbit Incident of last year, no orphans had contested their superiority. Billy and Eric were properly cowed, never even daring to glance in Tom and Harry’s direction. Dennis was never seen around Billy and Eric again, preferring to remain with Amy. 

During those months, Tom taught Harry his third lesson: how to control animals with his mind. Although Harry still couldn’t manipulate animals like Tom could, failing to make them attack others or screech, he could nudge them to unconsciousness. 

He found that as time passed Tom hogged more and more of his attention, something that made ignoring the fearful stares or stammered apologies of the other orphans easier. It was hard to focus on other matters when Tom was constantly in the forefront of his mind, invading the nooks and crannies of even his most personal thoughts. He was caught in Tom’s gravity, orbiting the bright, blinding star of his psyche, following his every move.

On the annual Easter trip to Victoria Park, once they had arrived and finished listening to Mrs. Cole’s instructions for them, as soon as they were able to, Tom and Harry separated from the rest of the group. 

After ten minutes of walking, they found a quaint spot, just right for their purposes. They settled under a tall, shady Elder tree on lush, long grass, surrounded by a small pond and a wall of low rise bushes.

As soon as Harry and Tom sat down, though, Harry heard loud hissing noises emerge. An enraged snake barely visible under the bushes flailed its head around. It was instantly recognizable as a female adder by the dark colored “V” pattern atop its scaly head and brown-toned zig-zag pattern along its reddish flank.

To Harry’s great shock and amusement, Tom began hissing _back_ at the snake.

“Get away from that thing,” Harry shouted as he ran away from the coiled adder.

Adder bites were painful, and he didn’t feel like engaging in whatever folly Tom had involved himself in this time.

Tom spun to Harry and _hissed_ at him, eyes bright. 

Harry gawked at Tom, sputtering, “You’re hissing at me.”

Tom flushed before clearing his throat, although the wild joy in his eyes never dimmed.

“I can speak to snakes! I understand what she’s telling me,” Tom exclaimed.

Harry raised his eyebrow and tilted his head sideways in clear skepticism. 

Tom huffed before turning back to the adder, which had stopped hissing and emerged from the bushes. He hissed at it again before it started to climb into his lap. He stroked the adder between its eyes on the head and motioned to Harry, as if to say, _see, she is totally harmless and I’ve got the situation under control._

“Pet Medusa,” Tom challenged Harry. “I’ve told her to play nice with you.”

“You’re crazy.” Harry chewed his lip.

“I can control her. Come.” 

He took small steps towards Tom until he was in range and petted the adder. 

Stroking the adder was surreal. The head was slightly bumpy, smooth, and scaly, just as he had expected, but the fact that he was doing this at all was unreal. The adder swivelled its blood red eyes at him and as it flicked its tongue back and forth to taste the air.

When he finished petting it, Tom hissed at it again. It flicked its tongue again and slithered away.

“Since you don’t believe me, watch this.”

It was past the pond now to the bench where Amy Benson was sitting reading. Harry had the perverse pleasure of watching Amy scream hysterically as she repeatedly shrieked, “SNAKE!” Amy ran around the bench and tripped over a rock. Eventually the snake bit her ankle, and she screamed even louder, squealing as if she was a pig being slaughtered. She dropped her book and rocked back and forth, clutching her ankle. The snake slithered away into the bushes, returning the way it went.

“Why Amy? Why not Billy or Dennis?”

“Who do you think ruined our laundry yesterday?”

“A snake is overkill for that.”

Tom leaned back in his cross legged position, letting the snake slither into his lap. He petted it absently as he smirked. “That’s for me to decide. I’m the only one who can control Medusa.”

“Then teach me how. You’d be a good friend if you did.”

“Who says I’m a good friend?” 

Harry scowled. “Prick.” Tom was insufferable. He was a living, breathing bundle of contradictions: he was cold and aloof but still showed Harry his softer side. Tom was the worst person Harry knew, but he was also his best friend.

After Amy’s shrill screams had died out, they played multiple rounds of blackjack under the afternoon summer sun until Mrs. Cole called them back.

A week later, Harry and Tom returned to Victoria Park, but this time Tom said he was determined to “experiment more with his snake-speaking skills.” 

Harry sighed. He knew that whenever Tom got caught up in his pursuits like this, he wouldn’t have any time to play card games or socialize with Tom. 

They settled into their spot under the shady tree once more, and Tom hissed at the adder to come out the bushes. The snake slithered into Tom’s lap, taking considerably less time than it had the previous week. 

Unsure of his role in Tom’s experiment, Harry twiddled his thumbs until Tom held out his hand to motion Harry to come closer. He eyed the adder as the two foot long beast raised its beady red eyes to hone in on him and watched as Tom and the adder hissed back and forth. 

“Want to help me feed Medusa some baby rats? I said I would bring her food if she bit Amy last week. Watch, it’s pretty easy.”

Tom took a baby rat out of his pocket. He dangled the squeaking and above all, _alive_ , animal in front of Medusa. The snake snapped at the baby rat, swallowing it whole, displaying her impressive jaws as she guzzled her prey down. After a moment she swallowed, a small lump present across her scaly length.

Harry gaped at the scene before him. _You know what_ , he thought, _I’m not going to ask why he put rats in his pocket_. He figured it would be a waste of his time.

“Where did you find the rats? And are you sure the snake won’t try to eat my hand?” Harry asked, watching the adder with great trepidation.

Tom stated, “Don’t call her ‘the snake’. Her name is Medusa, and doesn’t appreciate being referred to as an ‘it’.”

Harry frowned. “Feeding Medusa can’t possibly be safe. I don’t know what you’re thinking half the time.”

“Don’t tell me you’re weak to feed a snake. I didn’t snatch these baby rats out of that despicably dusty second floor cupboard only for you to back out on me. And believe me, it’s safe. I fed her and my hand is still intact.”

Harry made a face. ”Yeah, because you can speak to snakes and I can’t.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “It’s not a big deal. Get over it.”

“Isn’t that cruel, to feed it babies?”

“It’s just nature, Harry. Nature is cruel. There’s no reason to feel bad about it.”

Harry sighed in defeat.

“Okay, fine, just give me a rat. I really would prefer not to though.”

With a trembling hand, Harry took the offered rat and hung it as far away from his body as he could. He flinched as Medusa’s jaws snapped wide open and swallowed the wriggling baby down. The lump of baby mouse in her body didn’t wriggle.

Tom smiled at Harry, wild happiness carved on his usually stony face, seeming more alive than ever. Harry did not remember a recent time where he looked this alert and engaged.

“Now wasn’t that fun? I still have another six rats left that we can feed Medusa.”

Tom’s eyes gleamed as the sunlight caught his dark eyes, the color of polished ebony wood, and began imagining the possibilities.

“I guess it wasn't as bad as I thought,” Harry admitted.

Harry gripped the third baby rat from Tom’s palm with a steady hand and hung it nearer to Medusa’s jaws, pinching the squeaking, wriggling rat firmly between his index and middle fingers. This time, he didn’t flinch. 

He imagined he could hear the soft squeaks of the baby mice even after Tom and he had finished feeding Medusa. Eerily, it reminded him of the rabbit’s screams.

\----- ----- ----- 

**Spring 1938**

Over the next year, every orphan learned to stay away from the “crazy freaks” Harry and Tom. They were brothers in all but blood, and the unlucky ones knew from experience that strange, unexplainable things would happen to them, would cause them harm if they didn’t keep their distance.

Harry sometimes wondered what it would be like to have another friend instead of just Tom, but he never thought about it much. Tom was the only person he needed. Tom was his best friend, his partner-in-crime, and his teacher. Tom never forgot to take care of him, and he vowed he’d repay his gratitude back tenfold one day. Tom was the only person he needed within Wool’s walls. Harry knew that it was pointless to interact with anyone else. They weren't like Tom. 

Tom was Harry’s one and only need in life, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

\----- ----- -----

**June 29, 1938**

On June 29th, Tom proved he was, without a doubt, the only person Harry needed. 

At the crack of dawn, Harry woke up and grinned. Today was his eleventh birthday. He kicked the thin, sparse blankets off his figure, climbed down the ladder to Tom’s bunk, and shook his best friend awake. 

“Tom. Tom. Wake up. It’s finally my birthday!”

Tom opened his eyes blearily, squinting at Harry. He groaned and pushed himself out of bed. 

“Happy Birthday, Harry. You’re officially eleven years old,” he said, voice raspy from being startled awake.

Harry pouted. 

“You should be happier for your best friend,” he whined.

“Birthdays aren’t that important. A birthday is just another day of the year, nothing special to it.”

“But it’s the day I was born.”

“Ha,” Tom scoffed. “You don’t even know if today is your actual birthday. June 29th is the feast day of Saint Peter and Paul, and you were named after Saint Peter. I bet that’s why Mrs. Cole chose June 29th as your birthday. In all likelihood it is not your birthday.” 

Harry frowned, ignoring the truth in Tom’s words. “Just because you hate your birthday doesn’t mean I hate mine. Not everyone is a cynical old man.”

“It’s not cynicism if it’s the truth.”

“Whatever,” Harry sighed, “Let’s get my birthday allowance early so we can explore for a long time.”

Both Harry and Tom got dressed into their faded uniforms and tidied their beds before going downstairs. They took their usual front and center seats in the mess hall, sitting impatiently through attendance. 

Harry bounced his leg against the ground, unable to clamp down his excitement. He grimaced at the sight gruel the staff called “breakfast”, but ate his share reluctantly at Tom’s insistent stare. After they finished their so called ‘breakfasts’, Harry entered Mrs. Cole’s office, Tom waiting upstairs.

Like every year he had received his birthday allowance, he tuned out Mrs. Cole’s incessant chattering she called “directions”, nodded at the appropriate pauses, and verbally affirmed his understanding when asked. He knew the drill already, return to the orphanage before dusk, don't bother anyone, and don't cause trouble.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she handed him a single shilling. 

Brimming with excitement, Harry thanked Mrs. Cole once.Clutching the coin tightly, he ran up to his room. 

He rifled through his drawers, searching for the rest of his meager savings, uncaring that his drawer contents were scattering everywhere. He eventually collected enough random pennies, threepence, and sixpence, to add up to another shilling. Meanwhile, Tom was rolling his eyes at Harry’s disorganized nature.

Once he had shoved all his coins into his pockets, Harry turned around. Tom was motioning to the newspaper wrapped gift in his hands.

Harry stared at it. 

“Well, don’t just stand around like that. Open it,” Tom said, playfully exasperated.

Harry’s eyes lit up, aglow with joy. 

“For me?” he asked. 

“Who else?” Tom challenged, raising an eyebrow. 

Harry grinned broadly. He hugged Tom with as much force as he could, and laughed at Tom’s stifled grunts.

“You’ll have to hug me harder than that to hurt me,” Tom boasted.

“I did pretty well. I heard you squeal.”

Harry huffed, but gently grasped the gift and looked at Tom, gratitude plainly written across his face. Not wanting to waste more time, he tried to open the gift neatly, but ended up tearing the newspaper to shreds, frustrated that it wouldn’t neatly unwrap at the corners.

“How do you make it so tightly wrapped?” Harry asked, thoroughly exasperated.

“Magic.”

Harry ignored his antics in favor of examining his gift. Tom had gotten him A Tale of Two Cities. Harry caressed the smooth hardback cover, marveling at the pristine state of the book.

“Where did you get this? It’s perfect.”

“From the bookstore, of course. I bought it.” Tom replied, straight-faced. To anyone else he looked completely truthful. Harry though, knew him better.

He harrumphed. “Come on. You don’t have to lie to me, I know you stole it.”

Tom shrugged, and, as if to justify his lie, said. “You don’t like it when I steal.”

“I prefer the truth to a lie.” Harry told him, “Plus, I can tell when you’re bullshitting me. Why didn’t you thrift it? There must have been a cheaper copy at least half the price of whatever this cost.” 

“That book was so battered it was unreadable,“ Tom sneered. “Why pay when you don’t have to? That takes the thrill out of it. And, practically speaking, this new book is much better and will last much longer than the shit they sell at the thrift store.”

Harry frowned. “You shouldn’t steal and you know it. Even if our abilities let us get away with it, it doesn’t mean we should.”

One thing Harry did not appreciate about Tom was his constant efforts to challenge his moral compass. Because of this, Harry always made it his top priority to follow his beliefs in what was right and wrong. However, Tom’s constant efforts also made it so that he was finding himself following through with what he thought was right less and less. Tom pushed and pushed and pushed, never learning to stop, always cramming Harry into more uncomfortable situations, molding Harry to fit into a Tom-shaped hole. But Harry acknowledged that the fault was shared among them. He was complacent with Tom, content to ignore their clashing views. He was complicit in many of Tom’s schemes. Was it better to be amoral like Tom or have a moral compass, just to never follow it? He wasn’t sure. 

Harry snapped out of his musings as Tom said, “I thought we were over this argument of right and wrong. If you don’t like it, there’s not much I can do about it now. It’s not like I can return it to the store and say I stole it.”

Harry fidgeted. Sometimes he wished Tom wouldn’t put him in positions like this. Why couldn’t Tom just have bought it? They could have afforded it. 

Deep down, though, he knew why: Tom loved the excitement and heady power rush from getting away with it; the more illicit the act, the better. Tom wanted to prove his superiority to anyone in any way possible. It mostly made him uneasy, but also the tiniest bit endearing, the lengths Tom would go for Harry, to include him in his life.

“I know, it’s just, you could have easily bought the cheaper version. But I won’t keep complaining.” Harry grinned. “I got a wonderful book for my birthday.” 

He decided that today—just for today—he would ignore that his birthday gift was stolen. There was no need to be his own personal party pooper. Just for today, he would allow it.

Tom’s face smoothed over. “You’re welcome, Harry.”

 _You know the lengths I’d go for you,_ went unsaid. 

Harry put away the book into the disorganized drawer and tightly hugged Tom again. The warmth of Tom’s body (and the unsaid message that Harry could hear anyway) overrode any pesky, lingering thoughts.

“We have enough money to buy two tickets to the cinema. They’re showing some reruns. But let’s go to the park first and talk to Medusa. She misses us, well, as much as a snake can.” Tom said “We can play Blackjack as well,” He offered .

Harry beamed. 

The two set out to celebrate the most significant day of the year for Harry. Both sheltered from the overbearing, harsh sun in the cool shade of the trees, while playing card games and Tom chatting with Medusa. A leisurely lunch spent at a fish and chips shop sated their hungry bellies and once they paid for the cinema tickets, they enjoyed a rerun of the Tell-Tale Heart, exhilarated at the slow, creeping horror presented in the movie. At a candy shop, Tom and Harry used their great charms to swindle some jawbreakers and a Mars Bar from the eagle-eyed shop owner. 

Later, when they were returned to Room 27, still suffering from a sugar high, Harry took the opportunity to climb into Tom’s bottom bunk and lay beside him. Tom stared at him, not moving to pick up his own book, seemingly content to Harry-watch. 

Harry read for the next few minutes, engrossed by the opening lines:

> It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Harry paused, mulling over what he had read.

From spanning a single individual to the whole of society, the book described the conflicting chaos of the duality of life. Never had he read anything that described his relationship with Tom so well. Nothing had ever captured the essence of their dual nature, the constant conflict between might and right. As he pondered, he wondered if it was possible to reconcile their contradictory views. 

He flipped through the next few pages, almost missing when Tom cleared his throat. Harry put his book down, curious to see what Tom had to say. Tom had not once picked up his own book. He must have been staring at Harry for the entire time. Harry flushed. It was nice to know he was such a captivating sight while reading.

“Happy Birthday, Harry,” Tom said quietly.

Affection spread through him and warmed his body from the tips of his toes to the tips of his ears. 

“Thank you, Tom.”


	4. Chapter 4

**July 9, 1938**

Ten days later, both boys had finished reading the novel and returned to Victoria Park once again. They sat in their little shaded spot, the long grass tickling their calves. While they discussed their book, Medusa was sunbathing on her favorite flat, smooth rock under the glorious lazy rays from the sun. The canopy of the Elder tree enveloped them, dotted with pale, unripened berries on each branch.

Their favorite pastime was to hold a book club for two and discuss the books’ themes, characters, plot, really anything that was of interest. Harry and Tom both had a deep appreciation for how _A Tale of Two Cities_ highlighted the duality of man, how it outlined right and wrong.

Pointing to an open page of the book, Harry stated, “Lucie was clearly in the right, a better person than Madame Defarge could ever be. She always tried to support the ones around her, even when rejecting Carton. Her happiness and well-being depended upon other people’s happiness.”

“Who determines what is right and wrong?” Tom challenged, eyes glinting, no doubt salivating over the prospect of debating Harry. “No one except yourself. And you can’t say Lucie was better than Madame Defarge. Both women were just people, equal to each other. There is no right or wrong, only actions taken or not taken.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “So you think that Madame Defarge, a vicious, ruthless leader of the revolution, stands on the same pedestal as dear Lucie?”

“How many times must I say there is no pedestal? There is only the idea of a pedestal, which people are ever so eager to put others on.”

“The idea of morality, of right and wrong in society is needed to maintain order and peace, otherwise we see what happened in France because of the absence of those aspects.”

Tom tutted. “You think too naively. Take Madame Defarge. If the story was told from her perspective, you would not portray her as an evil villain. Instead, the story would be a tragic tale of triumph and loss, starting and ending with tragedy, all told from a woman who had experienced it all. The French elite committed unspeakable atrocities against her, her family, and the lower classes of society. She tried her best to bring her form of justice on those who wronged her. Who is right and wrong?”

Harry argued, “Madame Defarge went too far in her idealistic quest for vengeance. She terrorized Lucie and Charles, a man who had nothing to do with his family’s crimes and was innocent by every meaning of the word. The son should not suffer for the sins of the father.”

“Again, if told from Madame Defarge’s perspective, Charles’s innocence, which is highlighted by Dickens, would be muted or disregarded in her telling. It is not important to her, because atonement for the atrocities committed could only come from his death. Even so, if one considered her actions towards Charles a mistake, one slip up does not negate the rest of her actions.”

“Justice is supposed to be impartial and fair, otherwise it is not justice. A single mistake undermines the whole structure of the law.”

Tom sneered. “You place too much faith in the ideas of right and wrong. I admire Madame Defarge for her ruthless single-mindedness and drive, her independence, and how she undertakes decisions without any hesitation. She is much like me in that regard.” 

Although it was concerning that Tom related so much with Madame Defarge, Harry had not expected it to be different. He did, however, have faith Tom wouldn’t become a ruthless murderer. Not under his watch. 

“You only like Madame Defarge because you wish you could do whatever you want without facing backlash. You want to live only under your own rules. Unfortunately for you, you have to deal with me first. Karma caught up to Madame Defarge in the end, as it does for everyone eventually.”

Tom scoffed. “Karma doesn’t exist. Senseless, tragic things happen all the time and the perpetrators get away scot free. Madame Defarge is a book character, not a real person, so Dickens wrote her according to his narrow view of morality.”

Harry held Tom’s scornful gaze. “Karma exists because I will always hold you accountable. Even if I am the only one to do so.”

Tom curled his lip. “You can try. I doubt you will be successful.”

“You think I need your approval to feel good. I don’t,” Harry replied.

“Dear Harry, don’t deny that you need me,” crooned Tom. “You can’t escape me. Not now, not ever. We’re meant to be together.”

Tom was right. They were destined to be together. But that didn’t mean his destiny was out of his control. He could, would, had let go of Tom when the situation called for it. It felt like he was ripping himself apart into bloodied pieces, but he was able to leave Tom’s orbit. 

Harry said softly, “You forget that you need me just as much as I need you. I’m not the one in denial. You still refuse to admit that our time spent separated from each other tore you apart too.”

An hour later, they ate their lunches: soggy, warm ham sandwiches ruined from the summer heat.

Medusa was lying across Harry’s lap, flicking her tongue out at the remains of his sandwich. Indulgently, he fed her the last bits of ham and ate the bread. He stroked her, starting from the top of her head to the middle of her back before lifting his hand and repeating the action. He smiled fondly as Medusa flicked her tongue out every so often. As Harry had learned through the years, nothing felt better than basking in the sun’s rays and petting her smooth, scaly body. 

He tried hissing at her in his best rendition of “hello”. Medusa slithered forward in his hand and lay her head on his palm, letting out a strange wheezy hissing sound. Harry pouted. He didn’t think his garbled hisses were so awful to warrant laughter from a snake, but here he was. 

When Harry looked at Tom, Tom had put his hands behind his head and was sinking deeper into his slouch. Tom smirked at him and shrugged his shoulders as if to say this is all you. In turn, Harry pouted harder. Medusa slithered from his body to lie back down on her favorite rock.

They remained exactly like that for a while, just enjoying the simple things in life: heat, sunlight, and the close company of best friends.

Once clouds had covered the sun, Tom hissed at Medusa, who was still laying atop the rock, trying her best to soak up what remaining sunlight there was. She hissed back and waved her tail back and forth. Then she slithered away to torment Amy and Dennis. 

It was routine by now: Tom always made sure that Amy and Dennis were at least bitten once annually by Medusa. Harry pursed his lips at Tom’s antics. There was no reason for Tom to target Amy and Dennis, except that it was a tradition of theirs. Also, Tom enjoyed watching Amy and Dennis squirm. Harry enjoyed it as well, but he never admitted it, for obvious reasons. No need to give Tom more bargaining power than he already had.

It started as usual. Medusa waited in the bushes until Amy and Dennis were distracted, and she made her move. However, today, Amy and Dennis were more prepared than usual. As soon as Medusa sprang from her hidden position, Dennis beat her down with a stick. Tom and Harry could only watch in horror and rage as Dennis continued to poke and prod her forcefully, while Amy handed Dennis a sharp rock. He began bashing her writhing body and got a strong smack against her head. When she went limp, Dennis took Medusa and swung her, slapping her head against the rocks. 

Crimson blood trickled down the side of the rock, dripping onto the grass, staining the ground red. 

Amy and Dennis left laughing. Amy kicked at the snake twice, apparently checking to make sure it was dead before both left.

Harry had to hold Tom back through the veil of his tears. Tom was seething, rage distorting his angelic features, struggling against Harry’s vice grip to confront Amy and Dennis, to make them hurt, make them suffer, make them regret killing Medusa.

Harry felt much the same way. Although he could not talk to Medusa like Tom could, he was quite affectionate towards the adder. She had grown on him and become a permanent fixture of their park visits. Visits just weren’t the same when she was absent. She never failed to cheer him up when she coiled in his lap. Once having been apprehensive about feeding her, he had grown to enjoy the strangely cathartic activity. He even tried to learn how to communicate with her, but Tom had always shook his head, saying that most of his hisses were unintelligible, except for “hello” and “yes” and “no”.

Although he wanted to let Tom go, maybe even help Tom chase them down and make them suffer, Harry knew he could not let it happen.

“We can’t, Tom. We’re out in the open. There are too many other kids around. Mrs. Cole is gonna punish us if they all snitch!”

“Let go of me! I don’t care! I’ll make them wish they were never born!” Tom hissed, writhing in his cage of Harry’s arms.

Like himself, Tom had watery eyes. Tears, Harry realized. Actual tears. Either from sadness or anger or both. 

Harry pulled Tom into an embrace, tucking himself under the taller boy’s chin. “You can’t,” he said gently, his voice softly cracking in the middle of the words. “You can’t.”

Tom stared at Amy and Dennis, watching them disappear from view before he turned his attention to Medusa’s corpse. His arms were tensed at his sides, all the fight for violence held back by Harry’s simple embrace. Eventually, his hands came up to grab at Harry’s shoulders tight. After an eternity of silence, Tom said in his coldest voice, “We’ll make them wish they were never born.”

“But how?” 

There was no guilt like there would have been two years ago. Bad things deserved to happen to bad people, and Amy and Dennis were bad people for killing Medusa. It felt good to do bad things to bad people.

Tom clenched his jaw. “I don’t know yet. But we’ll make them beg for mercy that I won’t give. But first, we give Medusa a funeral. A proper funeral.”

Once they were sure nobody would see them, they made their way to Medusa. Tom cradled her figure in his arms. Her body was cold to the touch as Harry stroked her head one last time. They carried her over to their spot under the Elder tree.

Tom dug a hole just large enough to hold Medusa and lowered her body into the small pit with great care, arranging her until she was in a coiled position with her head tucked neatly under her body, reminiscent of the lazy afternoons spent sunbathing or sleeping while Tom and Harry played. 

Harry tore a page out of _A Tale of Two Cities_ and took his pen. Being extra careful to write neatly, regardless of his shaking hands, he wrote, “?—JULY 9, 1938. HERE LIES MEDUSA, BELOVED COMPANION OF TOM AND HARRY.” 

He placed the note with Medusa in the pit.

They stood in silence, staring at the scene before them, Tom shaking uncontrollably.

A few moments later, Harry cleared his throat. “I cannot say I knew you as well as Tom did, but you grew on me. Over the years, I learned to live with you and I began to enjoy your company. You always brought me joy, with your strangely human-like actions. Even just seeing you would brighten my day.” His eyes watered.

Harry blinked away tears rapidly, but he wasn’t fast enough to prevent a couple tears escaping and hitting the dirt in the pit. The earth darkened, moistening from the salty liquid. 

_May my tears water the earth you lay in_ , he thought. _You live on in our memories._

Behind him, Tom remained silent, although his intense gaze, brimming with unnameable emotions, never left Medusa’s unmoving body.

Over the next few days, Tom and Harry plotted. They decided that they would corner Amy and Dennis in The Cave on the day of the shore trip as revenge.

The day before the trip, they easily bypassed the locks to Amy and Dennis’s rooms. Tom took Dennis’s room, while Harry entered Amy’s. 

Inside Amy’s room, Harry moved around until he found Amy’s roommate. Samantha Bridges’s sleeping body greeted him. Although he had never before put an animal into deep sleep, much less a human being, now was the time to put the skills he had learned from Tom to good use.

He concentrated on Samantha, thinking intently. _Sleep. Do not wake until morning._ After he felt Samantha slipped far enough into her dreams, Harry turned to face Amy.

He focused on the other girl, imagining venom coursing through her veins and paralyzing everything except her eyes. _Do not move_ , he commanded. _You cannot move your legs, arms, and the rest of your body, except for your eyelids. Wake up. WAKE UP!_

Amy awoke, eyes flying open.

Harry smiled grimly at her. He must have looked demonic in the low light of the room, a dark figure emerging from the shadows, for her eyes widened in fear upon seeing him.

“Hello, Amy. As you have no doubt discovered by now, you cannot move. You will not be able to move until you answer my questions.”

Amy’s eyes fluttered open and shut, whirling around the room at a breakneck pace, no doubt trying her hardest to move but finding that she could not. 

Harry grinned. “Answer the question. Will you and Dennis come with Tom and I to the cave tomorrow?”

Amy gave no answer, continuing to swivel her eyes round and round, utter terror etched in her widened eyes. It was comical: her body remained still, her breaths slow and even, while her eyes seemed to pop out from her face.

His grin grew. “Oh, I forgot. You can’t talk.” He tutted. “What a shame. Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

Amy blinked twice, morphing her fear into defiance.

Ire roared through him, but Harry kept his expression bored. “Samantha is asleep and won’t wake up until tomorrow morning. You and I can wait here for as long as you need. I have no issue with that. But, if you defy me twice... well. Let’s just say you will be stuck like this until morning.” 

He reached out and pinched Amy’s cheek hard, leaving a darkened patch of skin in the dim light. 

“Actions have consequences. And you killed Medusa.”

He slapped Amy across her chubby cheek, satisfied as her head whipped aside.

“I could do this all day.” He slapped her again on the opposite cheek, grinning madly as her head whipped to the other side.

He slapped her twice more. “I’ll ask you one more time. Will you and Dennis come with Tom and I to the cave tomorrow?”

Amy stared at him balefully, no doubt trying her hardest to scowl and snarl. He only grinned wider. After an indeterminable amount of time, she lowered her eyes and blinked once. 

He gripped her chin and tugged up. “Look at me when you do it,” he demanded.

She stared at him, eyes pleading. Harry shook his head, still grinning. She blinked once while looking him straight in the eye.

“Wonderful.”

He focused on her again. _Sleep. Fall asleep._ Once she had fallen into unconsciousness, he rewrote his previous command. _You are able to move your limbs again._

Gratified at a job well done, he left her room and relocked the door.

She wouldn’t bother them ever again. Harry had made sure of it. It truly was really a pity, though, that she had to learn that the hard way. 

\----- ----- ----- 

**July 16, 1938**

Harry popped a tootsie roll into his mouth, savoring the sweetness of the candy as he and Tom forcefully guided Amy and Dennis down the treacherous rocky precipices and into the cave situated at the foot of the cliff. 

Amy and Dennis reluctantly followed them, mute as fish and shivering deeply. Neither Tom nor Harry cared about their discomfort. 

At the boulder nearest the cliff face, they stopped. Tom turned around and demanded, “Come.” 

When the two victims did not jump, Harry raised his brows. “Jump,” he commanded. 

Amy and Dennis trembled harder than ever, but gave in, doing as they were told. They jumped into the deep pool. Harry, copying them, plunged in as well, falling into deep, icy water. 

He quickly arose from the water and stepped onto the slippery, rocky ground of the dimly lit cave. Harry suppressed his shivers even as the cold seemed to seep into his bones.

All three had made it before he did. Amy and Dennis were trembling, their teeth chattering in their skulls like wooden balls in a bingo spinner. Tom had no outward symptoms of the cold, except that his breaths were deeper than normal. 

“Follow,” Tom demanded.

Tom led them deeper into the cave until they reached the edge of a great black lake. The ceiling was so high that it was out of his sight.

Tom and Harry stood at the edge of the lake, in front of Amy and Dennis. They both spread their arms, raising their hands to the heavens.

“Actions have consequences. You killed Medusa,” Tom stated.

Harry focused on directing the lake to ripple and furl. The lake crested and rippled, black water rising and falling with great crashes. The still air in the cave flew across their faces, courtesy of Tom. Amy and Dennis’s drenched hair whipped back and forth, slapping their faces. 

They were absolutely terrified, eyes blown wide open and eyebrows knitted together, mouth parted in instinctive terror.

“We-we didn’t mean it! We didn’t mean to! I swear!” Amy babbled.

Tom scoffed, “But you did. And you will suffer for it.”

While Amy and Dennis continued to babble and blubber, moving their eyes from staring in terror at the shaking rocks on the ground to staring in terror at the rocking waves, Tom stared at them with a cruel, self-satisfied glint in his eyes. 

The scent of urine filled Harry’s nostrils. Harry wrinkled his nose. Dennis had pissed himself. Served him right.

“Harry, do you think they have learned their lesson? Should we let them go?” asked Tom.

Amy and Dennis begged and pleaded. His dispassionate nature was not moved by the display of their snotty tears.

“No. Amy, Dennis come forward and stand neck high in the water.”

They made their way into the lake with quivering limbs, both shaking from fear and cold.

“We’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

He focused on them Amy. They had agreed beforehand to immobilize them for some time in the cold, dank cavern. _Do not move. Do not speak. Do not open your eyes. Stay still until we return. Do not ever tell anyone what happened._

When Amy and Dennis had stiffened and shut their eyes, their bodies were no longer trembling. Harry nodded at Tom. The deed was done. 

They left the cave and enjoyed a light lunch at the seaside town, toasting to their success, before returning to the cave three hours later.

Back in the cave, Amy and Dennis were still stuck in the same positions from earlier: stock still, eyes glued closed, and unequivocally mute.

With bored faces, Harry and Tom finally reversed what they had done to Amy and Dennis.

“Come. It’s getting late. Mrs. Cole expects us back soon. If you cannot keep up with us, we will leave you behind.”

Feeling indulgent, just as Amy and Dennis scrambled to get to dry land, Harry sent the water crashing down against them, knocking them over to the mercies of the lake. 

They surfaced, heaving for gasps of air, and sputtered, coughing out salty water. They stood up on trembling legs, uniforms and shoes completely soaked and stuck to their skin, once-dried hair again clinging to their pale, clammy faces. 

It was unfortunate that Amy and Dennis were able to keep up. He would have relished leaving them behind. 

On the bus back to Wool’s, Harry and Tom shared matching smirks at Amy and Dennis’s complete avoidance of them, unnerving the other orphans. Their fear, which was so strong that he could almost taste it, gratified him. But the knowledge that Amy and Dennis would never again hurt him or Tom was the best kind of satisfaction, better than the fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I welcome feedback! Also, next week the duo meets Dumbledore...


	5. Chapter 5

**August 23, 1938**

On August 23rd, Harry and Tom received a visitor.

Harry and Tom were both reading in their respective bunks when two knocks on their door disturbed their tranquil silence, filled only with the occasional page turn. Mrs. Cole entered, along with an auburn-haired bearded man wearing a plum velvet suit.

Harry stared at the visitor, perplexed at why this strangely-dressed man entered their room. He put his book down and chanced a glance at Tom, who minutely shook his head. _Damn it._ Neither of them knew who this man was. More importantly, neither of them knew why he was here. 

“Tom, Harry, you two have got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton—sorry, Dunderbore. He’s come to tell you both—well, I’ll let him do it,” she stuttered.

Harry climbed down to sit in the desk chair, bookmarking his page. He placed the book on the desk. 

“How do you do, Tom, Harry?” said Dunderbore, walking forward and holding out his hand.

Harry and Tom looked at each other again, hesitating over what was the best course of action. Tom stood up from his bunk and shook hands with Dumbledore. Harry did the same. He already disliked Dunderbore. This strange man with his strange suits and hair and manner.

Dunderbore drew up the hard wooden chair from the second desk and sat near the two, eyes flicking between them. 

“I am Professor Dumbledore.” 

Harry hesitated, choosing to let Tom lead the conversation. Whatever a “professor” was, he did not like it.

“‘Professor’?” Harry repeated. “Is that like ‘doctor’? What are you here for?”

“I am here to—”

Tom butted in, “Did she get you in to have a look at us?”

Tom pointed at the door through which Mrs. Cole had just left.

“No, no,” said ‘Dumbledore’, smiling. 

Tom narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “She wants us looked at, doesn’t she? _Tell us the truth._ ” 

Dumbledore didn’t say anything, only continuing to smile pleasantly. 

_He should have said something already,_ thought Harry. _Tom’s special power had_ never _failed on anyone before, even adults._

Tendrils of fear and indignance curdled his gut. Tom was similarly shocked, as his eyes had widened to the size of large saucers, glaring at Dumbledore.

“Who are you?” Harry interrupted, ending their staring contest. 

“As I told you before, my name is Professor Dumbledore. I have come to offer you both a place at my school—Hogwarts,” Dumbledore addressed. 

As Harry asked, “What is the school for?”, Tom’s face screwed into a scowl, his hands clenching in agitation. Harry grabbed at his sleeves in an attempt to ground him, knowing with a single sideways glance that Tom was ready to attack. They were both shaken from Dumbledore’s immunity to the Special Power.

Dumbledore, noticing Tom’s intensely hostile look, studied them pensively before humming and continuing, “Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you—” 

When Tom’s eyes narrowed further, Harry gripped Tom’s sleeves harder, bunching the material in his fist and glaring at him. He grabbed his forearm, his own special nonverbal warning to say _shut up, or else_. Tom’s scowl deepened, but he remained still. Harry took a deep breath and looked back at the professor.

“Hogwarts,” Dumbledore picked up again, “is a school for people with special abilities—”

Without taking his eyes off of Dumbledore, Harry felt Tom’s muscles constrict as he tried to jump up. Harry only squeezed Tom’s forearm tighter, digging his nails in as hard as he could. Tom glowered, opening his mouth-

“—It is a school of magic.”

They froze. Harry gaped at Dumbledore, while Tom relaxed his not-so-subtle posturing to gaze at Dumbledore with wild eyes, joyous in their intensity. His face was expressionless, eyes flickering back and forth between Harry and Dumbledore, as if daring Harry to contradict what they had just heard. 

A warmth bloomed across Harry’s body. Tingles raced down his spine. “Magic?” they both repeated in whispered tones.

“You are correct,” said Dumbledore. 

“It’s … it’s magic, what we do?” Tom asked.

“What is it that you can do?”

“We call it the Special Power,” said Harry, who gestured to Tom to explain, sensing his fevered excitement.

Tom added excitedly, “With the Special Power, we can make things move without touching them. We can put animals to sleep without training them. We can appear in different places without moving.” 

Harry cut in, exhilarated, “We can make bad things happen to people who bully us. We can make them hurt if they hurt us.” 

Harry felt his legs tremble. He gripped the top of the chair and panted. Tom wasn’t doing much better: he stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer. 

“I knew we were special,” Tom whispered to his own quivering fingers, before raising his head to gaze at Harry, his wild eyes electrifying the distance between them. “There was no way we weren’t, not when both of us had something no one else did.”

“Well, you are quite right to say you and Harry share a gift. You are wizards,” said Dumbledore, who was no longer smiling, but watching both of them intently. 

Tom lifted his head and focused his gaze on Harry, then Dumbledore. Tom was the happiest Harry had ever seen him: his genuine, slightly lopsided childish smile was on full display, tiny dimples appearing if one knew where to look, lower cheeks rosy and pink. Harry smiled back, breaking out into a wide grin, unable to help himself when Tom’s youthful joy was so infectious. 

He got up and tugged on Tom’s sleeve insistently. “We’re wizards!” he crowed. Tom blinked a couple of times in succession, still smiling, as if unable to wipe his face. “Yeah, we really are. We’re _special_.”

Dumbledore gave them time to talk among themselves, before clearing his throat and saying, “If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts, you will be joining the ranks of witches and wizards exactly like you.” 

“Of course we are!” Harry said, still ridiculously giddy over the fact that Tom and he were going to a _magic_ school. “We wouldn’t reject it for anything.”

“Then you will address me as ‘Professor’ or ‘sir.’ ” 

Harry shrunk back slightly, saying, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be impolite.”

“It’s alright, Harry,” said Dumbledore gently.

“So what can you do with magic?” asked Tom curiously. 

Harry watched in great interest as Professor Dumbledore drew out a long, ebony colored, polished stick and said, “Watch. I will set your wardrobe on fire, but it will not burn.” He pointed it at their wardrobe, and gave it a casual flick.

Instinctual horror and anger overtook Harry as the wardrobe burst into flames.

Both Harry and Tom jumped to their feet, scrambling over to the wardrobe. Harry prayed that Dumbledore was telling the truth, that he didn’t lie to them like Mrs. Cole did. By the time they had reached the wardrobe, the flames vanished, leaving the wardrobe completely undamaged.

Harry stared at Dumbledore in trepidation while Tom pointed at the stick and asked, “Where can I get one of those sticks?”

“It is a wand, not a stick,” said Dumbledore. His blue eyes watched them closely. “I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe.” 

And sure enough, Harry heard a faint rattling from inside it. His heart sank, fear writing itself plainly across his face as Tom tried to mask his own. 

“Both of you, open the door,” commanded Dumbledore. 

Harry reluctantly made his way to stand by Tom, who had crossed the room and was waiting to open the wardrobe door. Tom opened the door. The source of noise was a box of small trinkets shook and rattled. 

“Put the box down and empty it out,” said Dumbledore. 

Tom looked unnerved as he handed the box to Harry. With trembling hands, Harry opened it and watched the contents spill out onto the bed. Samantha’s yo-yo, a silver thimble from the sewing station, Billy’s tarnished harmonica, a lopsided clay snake figurine Harry had made for Tom, and the ticket stubs saved from the few films they had seen at the cinema over the years all tumbled out onto the bed.

“Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?” asked Dumbledore, stepping closer.

Harry flushed in shame. “Yes,” he said quietly. Harry flinched as Dumbledore put his hand on his shoulder and turned around, unwilling to face the items that Tom had stolen, that he had helped Tom steal. Meanwhile, Tom was standing by expressionlessly, unmoving, although his shoulders were tensed in a familiar anger.

“You will return them to their owners with your apologies. Be thankful that you are a child, and these misdemeanors excusable. However, be warned that theft is not tolerated at Hogwarts.” Dumbledore said this while staring directly at Tom. Harry was just thankful Dumbledore wasn’t focusing his scrutinizing gaze on him, although he did wonder how Dumbledore knew it was Tom who did it.

His cheeks burned and he ducked his head, but Tom, unsurprisingly, wasn’t abashed at all: he stared coldly at Dumbledore, before saying, “Yes, sir.”

“At Hogwarts,” Dumbledore went on, “we teach you to control magic. And you will find that many of the methods you use—inadvertently, I am certain—will not be tolerated there. If you continue with your methods, there will be consequences from Hogwarts and the Ministry of Magic. All new wizards that enter our world must abide by our laws or face the consequences.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, feeling shame and humiliating color his features. “I’m sorry sir, I won’t let it happen again!” he pleaded, looking at him earnestly.

Dumbledore’s expression softened minutely. “I believe you.”

While Dumbledore was talking, Tom put away the little cache of gifts for Harry back into the cardboard box, one by one, face remaining quite blank, although Harry knew Tom was fuming inside. 

“At Hogwarts, there is a list of school supplies you need, which you can purchase from Diagon Alley,” Dumbledore continued, drawing out two letters and handing them to Tom and Harry.

“I can either accompany you to Diagon Alley, or you can follow the directions, which can be found in your letters.” 

Harry asked, “Is it in London? If so, we’ll go on our own. We know London like the back of our hand.” 

Tom nodded in agreement.

Dumbledore said, “Yes,” drawing out a leather money-pouch from his pocket. 

Dumbledore handed them a stack of coins, which Harry took and handed a couple over to Tom. He examined a fat gold coin. 

Dumbledore spoke again, “This is the currency used by wizards. There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. You might have to buy some materials secondhand, but do not worry, they will work just as well as the pricier versions.”

Dumbledore told them exactly how to get to the Leaky Cauldron from the orphanage and said, “You will be able to see it, although muggles around you—non-magical people, that is—will not. Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name—” 

Tom drummed his fingers impatiently on his leg. 

“You dislike the name ‘Tom’?”

“There are a lot of Toms,” he muttered. Harry rolled his eyes. “The only other Tom you know is the candy shop owner,” whispered Harry.

Tom ignored Harry, asking Dumbledore, “Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they’ve told me.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” said Dumbledore, his voice gentle. 

Harry cut in, ending Tom’s rambling. “So—when we’ve got all our stuff—when do we come to this Hogwarts?”

“Take the train tickets with you to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King’s Cross Station on the first of September. Once you get there, you will see how to access it.”

Both boys nodded. Dumbledore got to his feet and held out his hand again. Harry shook hands with him first. Then Tom shook Dumbledore’s hand and hesitated, as if to say something before thinking better of it. 

Dumbledore’s eyes moved curiously over Tom and Harry’s faces. They stood for a moment, a man and two boys staring at each other. Then the handshake was broken; Dumbledore was at the door.

“Good-bye, Tom, Harry. I shall see both of you at Hogwarts.” 

As soon as Dumbledore shut the door, Harry seethed at Tom. 

“What were you thinking, acting out like that? I almost had it. What is wrong with you!” he raged.

Tom looked affronted, his nostrils flaring from fury. “What do you mean ‘acting out’? What’s wrong with you?” he snapped back, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry heaved a breath, over Tom’s bullheadedness. “Clearly you couldn’t tell when to tone it down. Dumbledore clearly does not like you.”

Tom scowled in reply. “The feeling is mutual. I don’t need him.”

“It’s not only about you. I need him, and you do too, although you refuse to admit it. We need as many good first impressions as we can get. You know, he seems to be pretty influential. He’s a professor at the school, for God’s sake!”

Tom waved his hand dismissively. “We can make better connections than a batty, eccentric, unkempt man.”

Harry challenged, “What if we can’t?”

Tom shrugged, exaggerating the slow roll of his shoulders. “So what? We’ll just suck up to him. Or we make our own way.”

Harry put his face in his hands. He mumbled, “Dumbledore isn’t the type to take kindly to flattery or brush things off easily.”

“He hasn’t met me yet.”

“He has,” snapped Harry, annoyed at Tom’s pompousness and thickheadedness. “And he doesn’t like you. I don’t think any of the most flattering sweet-talk you can come up with will convince him otherwise.”

“You can help me get back into his good graces,” said Tom.

“You already know I’m not the best at that sort of thing. We can’t let an incident like this happen again,” Harry stressed. 

“It won’t,” Tom said, as if he was not the one that caused it in the first place.

Harry scowled, saying nothing.

\----- ----- ----- 

**August 24, 1938**

The next day, both boys left the orphanage right after breakfast to visit Diagon Alley, navigating their way through the winding streets of London as they went.

Harry stood in the spot where the Leaky Cauldron was supposed to be, but he couldn’t find it. He frowned. He scrutinized the scene closer, but only saw a big bookstore and clothing store near where it was supposed to be located. 

“It’s between the two stores. See the sign that says the ‘Leaky Cauldron’?”

Harry squinted. “Huh. That’s really hard to see.”

“If you say so. Let’s go.”

Both boys entered, taking note of the dark and shabby interior. There were a couple customers spread out across the small, dingy pub, either seated at rickety bar stools or chairs at the marred tables. Two old women were sitting in the corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. A smoker’s face was obscured by the newspaper he was reading. Harry’s eyes drifted until he found the bartender, a middle-aged looking man that was quite bald.

What was peculiar though, was that all of the witches and wizards seemed to be wearing the same type of clothing, a long flowing fabric that looked like a cloak or robes, in shades of brown or black or grey. 

Harry and Tom made their way to the bartender.

“Sir, excuse us, but we were wondering if you could let us into Diagon Alley?”

“Ah, none of that sir stuff. Just call me Tom. You two are new muggleborn students I suppose? Come right this way.”

“Excuse me, Tom, but what does ‘muggleborn’ mean?” asked Tom.

The barman led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds. 

He explained as they walked, “Ah yes, I forgot you two wouldn’t know what it meant. ‘muggleborn’ means you were born to muggle parents—non magical parents. Now watch, once you get your wand, repeat this pattern and you’ll be able to enter the Alley by yourselves.” 

Tom the barman took out his wand and tapped the wall three times. “Three times up, and two times across, then stand back.”

Harry and Tom struggled to contain their surprise as the brick he had touched quivered and wriggled and a small hole grew wider and wider, forming an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight. 

The bartender turned to grin back at them. “Always wonderful seeing the expressions of new students. Welcome to Diagon Alley.”

Tom scowled, but Harry graciously said, “Thank you so much, Tom.” 

Both boys stepped through the archway and watched it shrink over their shoulders back into the solid brick wall. 

Diagon Alley was a lively place. Harry didn’t know where to look first—the sights and sounds bombarded their senses as the crowd pushed around them. There were a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop, gleaming from the sunshine. He caught snatches of conversations or shouts from the eclectically dressed shoppers, “... dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad…” “... the new Nimbus Two Thousand…” and Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. 

Harry stared at the sights, pulled by Tom’s arm to walk slowly beside him, looking at the shops selling hooting owls and pets, broomsticks, robes, telescopes, strange silver instruments, barrels of bat spleens and eel eyes through the tinted windows, spell books, quills, rolls of parchment, globes of the moon...

“There’s Gringotts. That’s where our fund will be.” Tom stated, snapping Harry out of his daze.

So the two entered the snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing outside the burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was a short figure with a clever face, staring at them with beady eyes, clasping his long fingers together.

Inside the bank, engraved the second pair of doors was a poem Harry began to read before Tom pulled him forwards to a figure at the counter. 

Tom asked the figure, “We would like to request money from the Hogwarts Financial Assistance Funding.”

The figure narrowed his eyes.

“Names?”

“Tom Marvolo Riddle and Harry Peters.”

“Very well. These are your keys to open the vault. Do not lose them,” He said, handing over two tiny golden keys. “I will have someone take you down to your vaults. Gornuk!”

The boys followed Gornuk towards one of the doors leading off the hall. They warily stepped through the door into a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. He noticed the path sloped steeply downward and that there were little railway tracks on the floor. 

Gornuk whistled. A cart came hurtling up the tracks towards them. Tom climbed in first, Harry following, and they were off.

Harry gripped the rickety cart tightly, feeling nauseous as the cart twisted and turned down the maze of passages. A glance at Tom told him Tom wasn’t faring much better, but could at least hide the obvious signs of discomfort.

The cart stopped beside a small door in the passage wall, and both boys got out and stared at the stalactites overhanging the vault door. 

“This is Harry’s Vault. Vault four hundred and twenty six.”

Both boys entered the vault to find it was filled with empty space, devoid of anything except a small sack of coins on the floor. Harry expected this sorry sight, but would have wished to see something more than a practically empty vault.

“This is your school vault. It contains all the money you have currently available. Because you are a beneficiary of the Hogwarts financial assistance fund, you will receive a set amount of money two months before the school semester begins. Do not spend it frivolously, because this is the only source of money you shall receive,” Gornuk warned.

Pulling out a gold coin from the bag, Gornuk instructed, “The gold coins are Galleons. Do not forget that seventeen silver Sickles equal a Galleon and twenty nine bronze Knuts equal a Sickle. Take that bag along with you if you wish to shop today.” 

Harry grasped the sack and made his way back to the cart, bracing himself for the unpleasant journey ahead. 

They repeated the process at vault four hundred and fifty nine for Tom, and returned to the surface, hands holding their pitiful sack of coins, stomachs queasy from the wild cart rides. 

Outside the walls of Gringotts, Tom motioned to a store down the road. It was Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

Harry and Tom pushed their way through the throng of people and stepped inside the store. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair. There were thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. The place seemed magical, even though it was small and dark. He hoped that not all wizarding establishments were small and dark.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. They spun around at the noise and faced an old man standing before them with wide, pale eyes the color of moonlight. His gaze seemed to pierce into their souls.

“Can we get our wands?” Tom asked. 

“Hmm. New customers, I see. You first,” he said, pointing to Harry. He pulled out a long tape measure with silver markings from his pocket. “What is your name? Which is your wand arm?”

“Harry Peters. I’m right-handed, sir.”

“Hmph. Hold out your right arm. That’s it.” The tape measure recorded the length from his shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round his head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance. No two Ollivander wands are the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”

Ollivander placed a light tan wand in his hand. “Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Give it a wave.” 

Harry snatched the wand and waved it using his right hand, eager for the perfect match. Alas, it was not to be, as the only strange occurrence was that a couple boxes fell from their positions. 

Harry stared questioningly at Ollivander.

Ollivander shook his head in reply. “You should feel a strong sensation when you find it. It may be an electrifying burning feeling, maybe a cold warmth that spreads, sometimes even a sharp sting to the palm.”

And so on it went with the shop falling into greater disarray, stacks of other boxes falling, windows rattling, strong gusts whipping past the inhabitants of the shop while he flushed and winced as the shop grew more battered by the failed wand attempt.

With each wand he was given, Harry felt nothing except the sweat of his palm and the smooth glide of polished wood. Nothing special at all. It had been twenty minutes already, and no wand had claimed him. When Harry stared desperately at Tom, Tom gave a tiny half-shrug in response. Keep trying, he mouthed.

At last, Ollivander climbed his ladder and retrieved a dusty box from a chest. 

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere, yes. Why not, try this, yew and phoenix feather, thirteen and a half inches, hard and unyielding.” 

Harry grasped the slightly crooked white wand with a bone-like handle. A sudden warmth and icy cold moved down his fingers to palm, electrifying his arm. The wand felt strange. It didn’t feel wrong, but it didn’t feel right either. It was compatible to his touch, but it didn’t feel like the one. 

He flicked the wand first with his right hand and a few multicolored sparks shot from the end, momentarily blinding all three occupants.

“It doesn’t feel exactly right.”

Ollivander raised his eyebrow, and peered closer at the wand, plucking it from his hand. 

“Perhaps not. Hmm, I wonder…”

Ollivander returned with another dusty box, opening it to reveal a richly brown-colored wand.

“Try this. An unusual combination, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.” 

As soon as his hand made contact with the wand, Harry felt alive. A burning sensation, almost hot enough to be uncomfortable, jolted his hand. He waved it around in a wide arc, and a stream of red, green, and silver sparks shot from the end like fireworks. The spots of light danced on the walls.

“Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good.” Ollivander wrapped it in brown paper, and placed it near the register. “Very uncommon combination indeed. A rare wand wood paired with a fickle core, holly is suited to protectiveness, while the phoenix feather is renowned for its independence and detachment. However, when paired together, nothing and nobody should stand in your way.”

Harry pondered these words as Ollivander turned to Tom. “Now, let’s find a wand for your friend. You are?”

“Tom Riddle. I’m ambidextrous, sir.”

Ollivander set the tape measure upon Tom, who watched its movements with intense curiosity. 

Ollivander peered into Tom’s eyes, then turned to Harry. The silence was mildly uncomfortable, Harry feeling quite awkward being stared at so intently by someone that wasn’t Tom. 

At last, he spoke. “Are you two close?” 

“Yes,” replied Tom.

Harry snickered as the tape measure measured the distance between Tom’s nostrils. Tom flared his nostrils in annoyance and Ollivander said in a distracted tone, “No, no, none of that. Don’t move.” Tom fixed his annoyed expression on Harry, but he only snickered more.

Ollivander mused, “Yes, I think the yew wand will do. Try it.”

Tom grasped the bone white wand and pointed it down in a graceful arc. A wisp of green light shot from his wand and waved itself around his body and then twined around Harry before returning to his wand.

“Oh, bravo! A powerful wand, very powerful.”

“In what way, sir?” Tom asked.

“Yew wands grant great power over life and death. In the right hands, the yew wand will be a fierce protector of life. In the wrong hands, the yew wand can take life just as easily.” Harry immediately thought, _there is nothing to say that one cannot be both._

Tom couldn’t contain his eagerness, gripping the wand tighter in his hand with brighter eyes.

“And it is very curious that you and Harry should have brother wands. The wand chooses the wizard, but these wands chose you two.”

“Sir, what are brother wands?” Tom asked.

“Brother wands are wands that share twin cores. Indeed, both wands contain phoenix feathers from the same phoenix. That phoenix only ever gave me two feathers for my cores.”

Ollivander fixed Harry and Tom with his misty, luminous eyes. “Quite curious indeed that you two have brother wands. You must be closer than brothers.”

“Always,” replied Tom. Harry smiled. 

“I think I must expect great things from you, Mr. Riddle, Mr. Peters.” 

Both boys paid seven Galleons for their wands, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

Once outside, Tom said, ”We’ll be great, there’s no doubt about it.”

“Of course not, but we should keep moving and get our robes. We can talk about it later.”

Tom nodded. “In that case, we must splurge on our robes. We can buy our spell books and other school equipment second hand. We need to make a good first impression on our school mates.”

They stopped at Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions to order three sets of plain black work robes each to go, and in the couple of hours before they could return and pick up their robes, they visited Second-Hand Robes to purchase the rest of their uniform requirements. 

Both boys also stopped at Taggarts Trusted Trunk Shoppe, purchasing two cheap but sturdy and large trunks. At Potage’s Cauldron Shop and Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, they purchased the cheapest models they could, knowing they splurged largely on their robes. They picked up their robes before setting out to Flourish & Blotts.

At Flourish & Blotts, they split up. Harry picked up two copies of each required Year One book, while Tom explored the other aisles and charmed the staff.

Tom returned to Harry, carrying _Hogwarts: A History_ and _Wizarding Customs and Culture for Muggleborns._

“This is the best introductory book to wizarding culture the shopkeepers could recommend to us. It’s pricey, but worth it,” Tom said.

While they paid for their books, they grimaced as they watched their funds dwindle until they were left with only a handful of coins between them.

They dropped off their meager funds at Gringotts and returned to the orphanage, impatient to immerse themselves in the new world they found themselves in.

\----- ----- ----- 

During the week before September 1st, Harry and Tom explored the rest of Diagon Alley. They read _Wizarding Customs and Culture for Muggleborns_ and _Hogwarts: A History_ over and over, synthesizing and memorizing all the important details, which was pretty much everything.

They had a lot to catch up on. They had learned they might face prejudice in the Wizarding World due to their unknown blood status, and though Harry did not mind being labeled a muggleborn, Tom flipped out at the idea. Tom refused to be a muggleborn, stating that he “hated muggles” and didn’t believe that he “could ever be born to such mundane parents.” 

This presented a conundrum, as they had initially aimed to get sorted into Slytherin, the house of the sly and cunning. However, they learned that Slytherin was dominated mostly by blood purists. It was unfortunate.

When Harry argued that they should try for Ravenclaw instead, Tom scoffed at him.

“We’ll prove ourselves in Slytherin. Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are lacking. Those houses are the antithesis of our nature. Meanwhile, Ravenclaw is mediocre. I won’t settle for mediocrity. What use is intelligence only for intelligence’s sake? Slytherin is the only house worthy of us.”

Harry sighed. “If we got sorted into Ravenclaw, that doesn’t automatically make us mediocre. Precisely because Ravenclaw is mediocre, we will be able to stand out better. Also, it’s a safer option, since we wouldn’t be hated and we’d be able to establish connections much more easily. We’re entering a new world, and we can’t afford to take too many risks.”

Tom shook his head. “These risks will pay themselves back tenfold. Without exceptional connections that we can only get from Slytherin, we won’t be able to achieve high level positions in society.”

“Have you ever considered that’s only what you want? I don’t mind not being the best at everything.”

Tom scowled. “Stop playing the devil’s advocate. It doesn’t suit you.”

Harry closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. _The_ audacity _of Tom to tell him off for being the devil’s advocate_. He said, “I’m serious. I don’t need or want it.”

“Pathetic. I refuse to believe that I chose to associate myself with someone so complacent.”

“Everyone is complacent compared to you. If success comes with the cost of dissatisfaction and unhappiness, then I don’t want it.”

“Feelings are obstructions to greatness.”

Harry harrumphed. “I suppose you think not getting sorted into Slytherin is a huge obstruction as well?”

“Yes. Not for me, but for you.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need it.”

Tom said in a clipped voice, “We will get sorted into Slytherin. There is no question about it.” 

And that was that. Harry hated to accept it, but what Tom wanted, Tom got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any feedback is appreciated!! I love all of my readers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Tom finally enter the walls of Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of worldbuilding going on.

**September 1, 1938**

During the early hours of September 1st, Harry and Tom grabbed their packed trunks and train tickets, and they took the bus to King’s Cross Station, chatting as they waited. Their previous arguments had been pushed away for later. Harboring hard feelings towards each other would have been detrimental, what with quite literally exploring a new world, after all.

Once they entered the station, they stood between platforms nine and ten, observing the people that passed by. A family ran recklessly into the barrier with no regard for their health, disappearing before their very eyes. Harry’s mind boggled at the sight. After the third family had passed through successfully, Tom told Harry to try it.

Harry scowled but did as he was told, walking towards the platform and ignoring the rational part of his brain that said he was going to crash straight into the bricks. Nonetheless, Harry, with his eyes closed in a half-grimace, felt nothing touch him physically even as he passed through the solid-appearing wall. When he finally opened his eyes on the other side, a scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people.

A few moments later, Tom appeared next to him. The crowd was a sea that tugged them this way and that as they stepped onto the train, moving from compartment to compartment until they found an empty one near the end of the train. They shut the door and tucked their trunks away in the corner. Harry glanced around at the red seats and wall lamps and thin carpet floor. 

“It’s nice,” Harry said.

Tom paused rummaging through his bag to lift his eyes and nod. 

“It’s not bad,” he agreed.

Once he had found what he had been looking for, Tom laid down and opened up _Hogwarts: A History_. Harry took the seat parallel to him and sighed, resigning himself to a long trip.

To be honest, any type of transportation that was over three hours long was a chore to him. Harry frequently became bored, and he would resort to nagging Tom for attention until Tom invariably snapped back at him. The minutes trickled by, and corrupting boredom ate away at his sanity. But being the good friend that he was, Harry decided to play war by himself rather than bug Tom. Today was not the day to interrupt Tom. The less Harry bothered him, the better, as a Tom in new situations without adequate preparation meant intense stress on his behalf. If Tom was even minorly interrupted, he would raise hell. Harry did not relish a repeat of the experience.

Harry brooded as he played absentmindedly. He had made up his mind: Slytherin over Ravenclaw. He couldn’t bear to be separated from Tom, and if Tom was going to Slytherin, so would he. Whatever the other Slytherins threw at them, Tom and he could beat them at their own game. They had to.

Harry said, “Fine. Slytherin it is,” breaking the large silence that stretched between them.

Tom put down his book, bookmarking the page before he closed it, and he interlaced his fingers. He said, “I see you’ve come to your senses.”

“More like you won’t come to yours,” Harry snorted. “As much I want Ravenclaw, I won’t let us become separated.”

Just as Tom was about to respond, their compartment door opened. A plump woman pushed a trolley filled to the brim with what he guessed were sweets of all shapes and sizes. 

“Anything from the trolley, dears?” she asked.

“No,” said Tom.

It was too bad they had no spare change after their shopping trips, as Harry would have liked to try some wizarding treats.

She hummed to herself and pushed the trolley past them into the next compartment.

As soon as she left, Harry asked Tom, “What were you going to say?”

“Hogwarts would be very boring that way.”

“Which is exactly why I chose Slytherin.”

Tom nodded absentmindedly, and he flipped a page, his eyes scanning rapidly the text from top to bottom.

After that, they settled back and ate the sandwiches they stole from the kitchen. The egg salad was warm and tasted funny. _At least it added some spice to the blandness_ , Harry thought. Once he had finished eating, he curled up on the seat, watching the blurring landscape outside the window as he drifted away.

Some time later, Harry awoke to the soft click of their compartment door sliding open. A redheaded boy with ruddy cheeks stepped in, clutching a wand. Harry was instantly reminded of Billy. Tom didn’t bother to raise his gaze from his book to glance at the nuisance.

As the silence stretched on, the redhead finally realized that Tom and Harry would not talk. The redhead blurted out, “Have you seen my rat around?”

“No,” Harry said in a clipped voice.

“Um, well— ok then. I’ll, um, leave. Bye.” The boy said, waving awkwardly before leaving the compartment, ducking his head as he went.

There was blissful silence for some time longer before their compartment door slid open once again and two boys entered. The first boy was tall and pale, pasty-faced, and platinum blonde. The second boy was dark-haired, sharp eyed, and of medium height. 

They gave Harry and Tom disdainful stares before they closed the door, heading to the next compartment, ignoring them the entire time. Harry frowned.

After they had left, Harry asked, “What was that all about?” 

“Perhaps they did not find us interesting enough to make introductions to,” Tom said.

“What if it’s like that at Hogwarts?” _It probably will_ , thought Harry glumly.  
“It won’t be. I’ll make sure of it.”

Harry returned to his game.

The trip continued in amiable silence until the train began to slow down. They slipped on their school robes and watched as the train approached a tiny, dark platform. Once it had slowed to a stop, they disembarked and followed the rest of the children onto the platform. Then they took a boat, scowling at the other children to prevent them from trying to ride with them.

Harry tuned out the yells from the gatekeeper and gazed at the sight before him. They were making their way across a great black lake, slowly approaching a huge castle perched atop a high mountain, its windows twinkling in the starry night sky. He smiled softly at the sight, unable to contain the pure joy and wonder at the magnificent view before him.

Harry breathed in deeply. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Tom was just as starry-eyed as Harry. Tom had tilted his head up and was gazing at the view with the type of wonder that small children have at the world around them, his eyes widened slightly and mouth parted in awe. Tom dipped his fingertips in the water and brought them to his face, his eyes completely focused at the task at hand. Tom smiled genuinely, his expression soft and open.

“It is,” Tom said, unable or unwilling to contain the pure happiness in his voice.

All too soon, they were ushered inside the castle entrance hall. The castle was just as breathtaking on the inside as the outside, which made it difficult for them to listen to Dumbledore. Apparently, Dumbledore explained he was the Deputy Headmaster, as well as the matter of the Sorting, House system, and House Cup. 

While he spoke, his eyes flitted over the students, landing slightly longer at the sight of Tom and Harry standing together.

Tom tugged subtly on Harry’s robes, just under the small of his back to snag his attention.

“Stop gawking like an idiot,” Tom muttered.

Embarrassed, Harry closed his mouth and adopted a cooler attitude, staring at the stone walls and flaming torches and marble staircases with much more decorum. He hoped his face wasn’t flaming red from Tom’s chastisement.

Harry contained his gasp as he watched translucent, pearly-white figures—ghosts—glide across the room. Tom, ever the prick, had managed to keep his face blank and expressionless since entering the castle.

Professor Dumbledore led them out to the tables, where they sat and waited. A dirty, patched up and frayed wizard’s hat sat on a four-legged stool. 

Harry blinked twice as the hat began to _sing_ , a jarring noise against the backdrop of low murmurs and whispers by the plethora of older students sitting at four long tables. The hall burst into applause as it finished its song, but neither Harry nor Tom felt inclined to clap along. A few glances across the room showed there were many still individuals. 

Names began to be called by Professor Dumbledore. In that terrible waiting period, hearing the As and Bs and Ls go by, Harry couldn’t help but run the scenarios through his head. What if he wasn’t sorted into Slytherin? What if _Tom_ wasn’t sorted into Slytherin? Harry’s hands grew clammy, and he tried wiping them on his robes without drawing attention to himself. 

Finally, his name was called. Professor Dumbledore announced clearly, “Peters, Harry.” Tom nudged him slightly, as much a warning for Harry to move as a silent show of support. Harry appreciated it, even if it had a dual purpose. 

As he made his way to the hat, Dumbledore’s eyes were fixated upon him, his gaze entirely neutral, neither supportive nor judgemental. He kept his back straight and pace steady and strides long, but inwardly he was panicking at the amount of attention he was receiving while intrusive thoughts tried to batter away at his psyche. He _had_ to get into Slytherin. He _had_ to! He promised Tom that he would. … Could the other students discern his sweaty handprints on his robes? 

When he reached the stool, he sat down with as much grace he could muster. It was practically a miracle that the hat covered his eyes completely. 

“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very difficult.” 

_Slytherin, not Ravenclaw_ , Harry chanted. _Slytherin, not Ravenclaw. Slytherin, not Ravenclaw. Slytherin, not Ravenclaw_ —

The hat chuckled, “Don’t worry, I wasn’t thinking about sorting you into Ravenclaw. You would do best in Slytherin or Gryffindor.” 

_Gryffindor?_ thought Harry, scandalized. 

“Yes, Gryffindor. You have plenty of courage—it must take a lot of nerve to stand up to that Tom friend of yours!” 

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, _Slytherin, Slytherin, please, I can’t, I_ won’t _go to Gryffindor._

“Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? Although you don’t believe it, you’ve got a heart of gold. You could find your path with that daring of yours in Gryffindor you know, it’s all here in your head. And it’s quite brave of you to argue with me.” 

_You want me to believe I’d be a good fit for Gryffindor. I don’t buy it. You wanted me to argue with you._

“Hmph. You’ve got cunning in spades. But what makes you think I will sort Tom into Slytherin?” 

Harry hesitated, formulating a response. But he discarded each argument as it popped into his mind. At last, he settled for his gut feeling. He just instinctively _knew_ that Tom was a Slytherin. He’d be damned if he was wrong. After a lengthy pause, Harry promised simply, _You will._

The Hat chuckled. “Such blind faith and loyalty to a friend, maybe Hufflepuff?” 

_No!_ immediately denied Harry. _That was never an option! I said Slytherin,_ he thought vehemently. 

“Ah, well, never mind. It wouldn’t have worked out anyways…” 

_Slytherin will._

“Slytherin will suit you, but they won’t treat you well if you do not acclimate.” 

_I’ve acclimated to Tom. That, in itself, is enough proof to sort me into Slytherin._ Harry pushed his most intense memories of Tom to the forefront of his mind. The Hat rifled through his head, the strange feeling akin to a gentle shuffling of his mind. 

The Hat spoke at last, “Hmph, I suppose it is. Better be SLYTHERIN!”

He heard the Hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He took it off and walked to the Slytherin table in a daze, irrationally hoping and hoping that he hadn’t chosen wrong, that Tom would join Slytherin with him. However, the applause for him was sparse, as the reception from Slytherin, just like the hat said, was less than friendly. The most promising looks he gained were neutral stares from the older students. The younger years and his peers sneered openly at him, including the blonde and dark haired boy from before. _God, it’s going to be worse than the train. Way worse._

He took a seat near the far end of the table, two seats away from the nearest student. Harry wanted to shrink back into himself, but he knew he could not, what with these types of people surrounding him. Because he was one of them at Wool’s. These sharks in the water circled for the faintest trace of blood, waiting for the moment of weakness that would allow them to tear their prey apart with their vicious jaws. Harry refused to cave in. He knew that there would be incidents, incidents that, if he did not play his cards right, would devour him alive. On the brighter side, if he did manage to prove himself, he would remain alive, battered and bruised, but alive and ready to survive another day in the snake pit. Ready to steal their power and reign _victorious_ with Tom. But today was not the day. Today was the grace period.

While Harry panicked inwardly, he outwardly kept his eyes on the Sorting Hat, unwilling to show his naivety, ignoring the gazes thrown his way. Finally, Tom’s name was called, echoing across the hall. With his long, confident strides, impossibly straight posture, and expressionless face, Tom was the perfect picture of grace. 

The hat barely touched his coiffed black hair before it screamed “SLYTHERIN!” Harry took an inaudible sigh of relief, and he felt absurdly silly for thinking that Tom wouldn’t be sorted into Slytherin.

Tom turned his confident swagger to the Slytherin table, unaffected by the sparser applause and pitying looks he was sent from the other students. Tom was graceful in all the aspects Harry wished he was, assertive body language mirroring that of the other Slytherin students.

He took a seat at Harry’s side. While they waited for the Sorting to finish, Harry couldn’t help but breathe a longer sigh of relief in his head that his irrational fears were wholly untrue. 

After the last name was called, the Sorting finished, and the headmaster began to speak. He introduced himself as Headmaster Dippet and began the banquet by waving his arms. 

Hearty food appeared at their tables, the kind of food Harry and Tom were lucky to glimpse at Christmas dinners: steak and kidney pudding, bacon and steak, beef casserole, fried sausages, shepherd's pie, sprouts, cut carrots, buttered peas, mashed potatoes. 

As Harry swallowed, he realized that he was salivating, his mouth actually watering at the variety of delectable dishes before him. He resisted the urge to seize his fork and dig in. He would not make a fool of himself. Tom slowly served himself a portion, ignoring the dirty looks sent by the others, and was eating carefully, using his best manners. Harry mirrored Tom, not wanting to out himself as the poorest and least educated of the Slytherin students. The gazes of sharp-eyed boys and girls on him never faltered, but Harry only focused on himself, the food, and Tom, blocking out all other distractions.

Dinner was uneventful except for the undercurrent of tension thick enough to cut with a knife that belied their every move. 

A patrician-faced boy with dull brown hair and a scrunched nose broke the uneasy truce. 

“Two mudbloods in Slytherin, what a disappointment of a year. The quality at Hogwarts has declined to utter filth in the past decade, it seems,” he sneered. 

Tom raised his eyebrow at the boy. He placed his silverware down and looked him in the eye, content to remain silent and not utter a single word. He kept constant eye contact with the boy, folding his arms across the table at the elbow. His gaze was steady and unblinking, cutting into the boy without showing emotion.

The brunet broke first, looking down at his meal. He sniffed to try to cover his mistake, but it was already too late. The damage was done. Tom had proven himself for the night.

And thus began his inauguration into the serpent’s lair.

Tom calmly picked up his fork and knife, cutting into his roast beef with precise motions.

Harry hid a small smile against his goblet of water.

After dinner was finished, two Prefects, an older boy and girl, led them down the stairwell and to the first door on the right to the Slytherin dorms. 

The prefects gave them the password, _Pureblood_ , and led them inside the common room.

The girl prefect introduced herself as Elizabeth Fawley while her eyes swept across the first years.

“Slytherin is the most unforgiving House in Hogwarts, but also the most satisfying house for those that learn and dominate the game. A Slytherin always plays to win. So play your ace—or don’t—with great care. Just as our house emblem, the serpent, will do whatever it takes to succeed, so will we.”

She motioned to the house emblem, a giant coiled serpent made of gleaming silver, placed atop the fireplace before continuing,

“We are the sleek and powerful serpent that dominates Hogwarts. We slither in the shadows and manipulate the major events from behind the curtain. We conjure majestic visions and see them through to fruition with our cunning and resourcefulness, unlike the other houses, who have their heads in the clouds. We rule with our unique form of leadership, unlike the meek Hufflepuff pushovers or eccentric Ravenclaws or stubborn Gryffindors. Whatever a Slytherin wants, they get.”

She glared at every student, her eyes cutting into Harry and Tom longer than the others.

“Beware the games we play between ourselves. Take care to rise up the hierarchy and escape your caste and your schooling experience will be pleasant. If you do not rise, then I have nothing to say to you.”

She snapped her fingers, a brisk, harsh noise against the utter silence of the first years.

“Slytherins always present a united front. No matter what petty squabbles you may have in these four walls, public Slytherin solidarity is mandatory. Heed my words well. Now, Professors Slughorn and Snape will relay some final words to you both.”

Professors Slughorn and Snape entered. One man was cheery, middle aged, and balding, with a prominent beer belly. The other was thin and sallow skinned. He had a large, hooked nose and shoulder-length, greasy black hair that framed his face. Cold, black eyes bored into each new student while his robes fluttered menacingly around him as he walked. 

The middle aged man observed each student before saying, “First years, welcome to Slytherin. I am Professor Slughorn, and my colleague here is Professor Snape. I teach NEWT-Level Potions, so you will not see me in the classroom for many years, but you will see me around in the Slytherin dorms, as I am the Head of Slytherin. You will come to me only after there are any issues you are unable to resolve between yourselves.”

Professor Snape stood in silence for an uncomfortable period of time before speaking barely louder than a whisper.

“I am Professor Snape. I teach General Potions. Each of you must follow the rules of Slytherin, those explicitly stated and those you must find out for yourselves,” here, his eyes lingered on Tom and Harry, “for your own pathetic sakes. Do not disappoint Professor Slughorn or I in any manner, academically or socially. Slytherin is a house of excellence. I expect all of you to act the part. This is my first and last warning. Crabbe, take them away.”

The male Prefect, Maxwell Crabbe, cleared his throat.

“Before I lead you to your dorms, there are a couple housekeeping notices I must go over. First, the Bloody Baron is the Slytherin house ghost. Second, the password changes every fortnight. Keep an eye on the noticeboard. Third, never bring anyone from another house into our common room or tell them our password. No outsider has entered it for more than seven centuries. Finally, boys and girls are not allowed to enter the other’s dormitories.”

With that, Crabbe led the first year boys to their dorms, stopping outside the rooms.

“One word of advice: do not sour your relationship with your roommate. Befriend them if you can. Your roommate is invaluable, since you will spend the next seven years with him, omitting the most serious of circumstances.” He paused, watching the students enter their dormitories. 

As he walked away, Harry could barely make out his faint words, “Breakfast is from seven to nine. My advice: be early. Goodnight.” 

The dorm with Harry’s name engraved on the plaque also read Tom Riddle. Harry inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, and settled inside with Tom.

They shut the door and stared at their room, amazed at the hugeness of it. Placing their luggage beside their separate desks, they marveled at the opulence and wealth revealed to them. The green themed room alone must have been worth more than the entirety of Wool’s. Harry wondered if all rich people lived in bedrooms similar to this: silver accents decorating the walls and lavish lamps and polished, smooth wooden desks and fluffy fur carpets. Perhaps it was real silver? Harry would not be surprised if it was; he would be more surprised if it wasn’t. 

Harry settled into his ancient four-poster with green silk hangings and fingered the bedspreads embroidered with silver thread, his mind running at a million miles an hour as he replayed the day’s events in his head. Hogwarts was beautiful and magnificent and wondrous but also intimidating and unfamiliar and imposing. He hoped that Tom was right: that they would be able to adapt with little to no difficulties. But it did not seem like that.

Once Tom cleaned up first for the night, Harry showered, brushed his teeth, and changed into his pyjamas. 

Having settled under the covers, Harry stared at the silver lanterns hanging from the ceiling as they gently swayed back and forth. He was glad Tom was beside him, not only in coming to Hogwarts but also becoming his roommate. He shivered at the thought that he or Tom would have been in a dormitory all alone. It was unbearable. Unable to restrain himself, he blurted out, “I’m glad you’re my roommate.”

“I am similarly glad.” 

As the burgeoning silence tickled Harry’s unease, Harry said at last, “I can’t believe we’re finally here.” 

The more Harry thought about it, the more he was convinced that this was all a fever dream, conjured by his addled mind. But this was not produced by his fevered imagination, as Harry knew he could have never dreamt of such in the dreary grey walls of the orphanage.

“I can. This is our birthright.”

\----- ----- -----

**September 9, 1938**

At the end of their first full week at Hogwarts, two things became abundantly clear. One was that they were different from the other Slytherins in every possible way. The second was that the other Slytherins took great pride in insulting and belittling them for their differences, causing them a substantial amount of trouble and grief.

The differences between them and the purebloods ranged from obvious to subtle. While their robes were of decent quality and material, it could never compare to the high-quality designer brand garments their classmates wore. The best they could do to avoid highlighting themselves as different was to draw as little attention to themselves as possible, a hard feat considering the fact they were two mudbloods in Slytherin, a novelty of the ages.

The purebloods spoke in impeccable Received Pronunciation, while Harry and Tom’s low-end Cockney signalled that they were from the slums. No matter how hard they tried to hide it, their speech was so far a cry from respectable Queen’s English that they were sneered at whenever they opened their mouths. So they spoke as little as possible and reduced their necessary speech to only each other, practicing speaking in Received Pronunciation late at night.

Compared to the neat, orderly handwriting of the pureblood students, the quality of their penmanship was awful, practically chicken scratch on the parchment. Because they had not received prior instruction on how to use quills, that meant that for the time being, their writing was as legible as the average five year old. It was a far cry from Tom’s elegant, practiced penmanship using pen and ink. They practiced and practiced on spare parchment, writing and rewriting essays and assignments until they felt their writing was acceptable.

Even though they worked thrice as hard as their pureblood counterparts, it seemed that their best efforts to disguise these differences were in vain, as no meaningful change had yet occurred.

Even worse, having been introduced to the Magical world only a month prior, they found out painfully that they lacked many of the necessary skills needed to blend in with the other Slytherins. What was as simple as using the correct cutlery to eat became a chore, a skill only mastered after many raised eyebrows and sneaking peeks at the others when they could. 

One observation they noticed was that everyone received owls during mealtimes except for them that came with letters, gifts, boxes, or newspapers. Some students received _The Daily Prophet_ , while other students preferred _Wizarding World News_. There were no signs of any newspapers they were used to, indicating a lack of knowledge the purebloods held on muggle affairs.

And they immediately observed that there was a common slur flung at them. “Mudblood” was sneered at them between classes in the halls, whispered during class while the non-Slytherins and professors weren’t paying attention, and shouted in the common room and taunted in the Great Hall. 

Nowhere were both boys safe from the taunts. Tom never let a single word pierce his mask, keeping his emotionless persona equipped at all times, but inwardly, each word stoked his hunger for vengeance. Harry tried not to let the words affect him either, but his mask would crack at times, especially in the most inopportune moments, such as mealtimes in the Great Hall. His microexpressions gave him away, exposing his immaturity to the rest of Slytherin. The sharks had found his momentary weakness, and they were circling in around him, eager to pick him apart and rip him apart and rend bloody flesh from bone. Harry couldn’t help it, he let it get to him: he escalated to public jaw clenching, furrowed brows, and the reddening cheeks.

Tom had to pull him aside to their dorm after Harry finally snapped back at a student.

“Stop. You’re giving them what they want.” 

Harry flushed, glaring at Tom balefully. “I know, I’m trying.”

Tom stared at him, eyes stormy. “Try harder. You know what’ll happen if you can’t.”

Harry inhaled deeply, measuring his breaths, and he bit his tongue, choking back the waves of unfairness that flooded his body. It was useless to argue against the injustice, because Tom experienced it just as much as he did. But Tom wasn’t the one complaining like a little bitch. Harry was. 

Feeling defeated, Harry eventually said, “I will.”

Tom must have been feeling introspective that day, as he said coldly, “Mark my words, one day we’ll repay them tenfold for their ‘tender mercies’,” he sneered. “I look forward to it.” It was the closest Tom would come to admitting weakness in an unfamiliar environment.

“Me too,” said Harry, because it was the truth and there was nothing else to say.

It was interesting how Harry’s and Tom’s presence in Slytherin could unify the most divided house, no matter what front they showed the other houses.

Slytherin was made up of three classes of students: the powerful—usually rich, Dark purebloods belonging to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the mediocre—usually lower to middle class Dark purebloods and half-bloods, and the outcasts—always the pariahs and muggleborn or unknown blood status students. Respectively, these three classes were organized on the hierarchy as occupying the first, second, and third caste. 

The powerful warred among themselves for the top spot in the first caste on the hierarchy, while the mediocre fought for the best position in the second caste—middle placements on the overall hierarchy, and the outcasts fought to rise up and exit the third caste, which was the bottom placement.

However, social mobility was tough in Slytherin. Birth and wealth determined social standing from the get go, unless they proved their worth early on—a rare occurrence. It was impossible to climb the hierarchy as a student with an unknown blood status because Slytherins automatically assumed they were a muggleborn unless there was good reason to prove otherwise.

Even worse for Harry and Tom, their arrival had created a fourth caste: the mudblood caste. It was impossible to rise out from. Everyone suddenly had an easy scapegoat for their issues. Anyone could claim they were superior to Harry and Tom because, well, they _were._

They were the lowest of the low, and the House of Slytherin was only getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried a new writing style here, I hope you guys like it :) 
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of first term.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I take liberties with canon (although I do try to stick to it whenever possible).
> 
> Yes, I make up my own spells.
> 
> Yes, I love making Harry suffer.

**First Term**

September and November passed quickly. After getting used to the verbal and occasional physical incidents of abuse, Tom and Harry fell into the pattern of attending class, acing assignments, and perfecting spellwork. They borrowed as many books from the library as they could, reading late into the night past curfew, trying to enrich themselves and immerse themselves in the new culture. Especially so that they could excel at Transfiguration, their hardest class—not because of the content, but because of the teacher.

However, no matter how they tried to please Professor Dumbledore, it seemed that Dumbledore had written them off completely. Insightful answers to questions were met with clipped one word phrases from Dumbledore. More often than not, Dumbledore would ignore them entirely, focusing only on the Gryffindors. At least in the beginning Dumbledore had given them some attention. 

For some reason, Dumbledore never looked at Harry with the same gentleness as he had when they first met; not even when Harry waited patiently with his hand raised for him to inspect his and Tom’s flawless transfigurations. No matter how much Harry tried to deny it, it hurt. No matter how much he grew to dislike Dumbledore, he still craved that man’s praise. Dumbledore had an entrancing way with words that made Harry want to please him as best he could, unlike Tom, who remained completely unaffected. Harry had somewhat childishly hoped Dumbledore would cut him some slack, but every following dismissal only increased his resentment. 

Outside of class, Harry and Tom spent their time learning the unspoken rules and culture associated with being a Slytherin. They were taught the art of crafting a Slytherin scheme through endless experiences: painful pranks, public humiliation, private mockery, and occasionally public mockery. 

The never ending feeling that they would never be welcome, that they were undeserving of Slytherin haunted the both of them. The jabs hurt more than Harry cared to admit, and the only reason he got through it at all without becoming too emotionally affected was because of Tom. Tom was his rock, his aloofness and equally disparaging attitude an anchor for Harry to cling to when the schemes became particularly awful. 

Both Harry and Tom knew they weren’t experiencing the worst of the worst possible treatment. What had saved them from a stronger lashing had been their innate brilliance. Or rather, Tom’s innate brilliance that he had forced Harry to foster. Their obviously gifted magical prowess and intelligence equated to perfect schoolwork and spellwork, which was a feature Slytherins could not ignore. Harry was sure that many students, especially the poor Dark Witches and Wizards, eagerly wanted to, their eagerness only curbed by the higher castes.

However, among the widespread verbal and physical abuse hurled at them, two bullies stood out in particular. Marcus Avery and his sidekick, Xavier Selwyn were the worst of the worst due to the frequency and harshness of their attacks.

Marcus Avery was the dirty blonde that couldn’t hold Tom’s eyes at dinner and Selwyn was his sidekick. In Harry’s opinion, the two were quite similar to Billy and his crew; all of them were tactless, overconfident, and overcompensated for their insecurities. Selwyn, unlike Billy’s sidekick Eric, was skinny and sickly-looking, the opposite of the hunk that was Eric. 

The standoff between them reached the tipping point in mid-December. Harry and Tom had just entered the Slytherin common room after dinner ended, and they were walking to their normal spots in a discreet corner of the room. Harry was conversing quietly with Tom when Marcus Avery approached them, flanked by Xavier Selwyn. Harry ignored them, hoping they would leave soon.

“Too scared to talk to me, mudbloods?”

Many eyes swivelled and ears pricked to take note of this confrontation. In the background, the younger years were making predictions on what was going to happen, all expecting Avery and Selwyn to be victorious. 

“Quite the contrary. It was you who could not hold my gaze for longer than a minute,” replied Tom coolly.

“I can take you on anytime on my own,” Avery threatened. 

“Maybe with another person to help you. Why else would Selwyn always follow you around?”

Avery hid his flush better than Selwyn, who had turned a bright red. 

Avery sneered, “Wizard’s duel tonight! I want wands only, no contact. Although, that’s assuming you know what a wizard’s duel is.”

Tom’s lip curled faintly. His face, however, remained blank. 

“I do. If you are so eager to duel, then Harry is my second. Who’s yours? Selwyn? He’s nothing more than a clingy PDW.” 

Everyone in the room winced, including Harry. It was an audacious move to call Selwyn a slur when Tom himself was no more than a lowly mudblood. PDW—Poor Dark Wizard—was a slur used by the wealthy Sacred Twenty-Eight families against middle class Dark purebloods because the derogatory term painfully highlighted the difference in wealth between the two classes of Dark purebloods.

Selwyn stepped forward, fists hidden in his robes. “At least I’m pure,” he sneered. “I would kill myself if I was a mudblood.”

Tom’s eyes grew colder. 

“Who says we’re mudbloods? You have no definitive proof,” Tom said icily.

Avery scoffed, cocking his head slightly. “We don’t need proof.”

Harry said, “I thought a true Slytherin always made sure they had cold, hard evidence before acting upon their assumptions, but I suppose I am proven wrong every single day.”

Avery glared at them. “I expect to see you both here in the common room to duel at midnight.”

“Why not the Trophy Room?” Tom asked. “If we dueled in here, everyone would watch me humiliate your pitiful form.”

Avery hesitated, mulling over Tom’s suggestion. Tom’s taunt was not without merit, as Tom was in the top of his classes, leagues higher than anyone else. Indeed, there was a chance that Tom would beat him, and that chance was far too large for Avery to risk it. But neither did Avery want to concede to a mudblood’s demands. After a tense thirty seconds, Avery made up his mind.

“Fine,” he spat. “Trophy room at midnight.” 

Avery spun around stiffly and walked briskly to the other end of the common room, Selwyn trailing at his side. Harry watched him go, and only after they had settled down on the couch near the fireplace did Harry resume talking to Tom. Both pretended that the confrontation hadn’t just happened and kept the conversation light, as if they couldn’t feel the dozens of eyes that bore into them.

The tides of conversation in the common grew to the loudest that Harry had ever heard. Everyone was discussing the outcomes and potential ramifications of this confrontation. This was the turning point: the winner of tonight's confrontation would reap the rewards and rise up the hierarchy while the loser would lower themselves. And everyone was expecting Avery and Selwyn to win.

In the case that Harry and Tom lost, it would prove that Avery and Selwyn were correct in their bigoted opinions.

In the case that Harry and Tom won, their victory would upset the Slytherins, as they held the conventional racist belief that mudbloods were inferior in every manner to purebloods. Moreover, their victory would shake the unshakeable belief that they were mudbloods and generate enough rumor around their unknown blood status that they could rise into the third caste—because the purebloods refused to believe that a mudblood would ever defeat a pureblood, especially Avery, one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. 

The potential benefits of this outcome were huge: the outward insults and sneering would stop, especially in risky locations like the Great Hall, where the insults skirted the edge of breaking the illusion of Slytherin solidarity, the bullying would abate, and they would earn some grudging respect. 

But what Tom and Harry hoped for the most was that a win against a Sacred Twenty-Eight heir would begin their integration into Slytherin. Because once they were fully integrated with the other students, true Slytherin solidarity would apply to them: not only would the bullying, pranks, and insults would stop, but they would also have the protection and sympathy of Slytherin House if something happened to them. 

And best yet, if they won, they would finally feel _wanted_.

Thirty minutes to midnight, Tom said, “We won’t go tonight.”

“What do you mean, we won’t go tonight?” Harry asked.

Tom grinned, teeth bared. “I compelled him while we were talking to fall asleep. He’ll wake up a few minutes before the duel and rush to the Trophy Room with Selwyn. But what he doesn’t know is that both Filch always makes his turn right around the corner to the dungeon doors.”

Harry grinned. “Avery and Selwyn will get detention while we don’t even have to get out of bed. And there’s no way they could pin their detentions on us.”

“Plausible deniability.”

A low lick of satisfaction warmed his insides. However effective winning against Avery and Selwyn would be, the benefits of Avery and Selwyn developing reputations as shirkers that could not honor their promises was many times more effective. Because if they got caught, well, there was no way Avery and Selwyn would be able to show up at the duel. It didn’t matter if they could not attend due to legitimate reasons (such as being caught by the caretaker) because Slytherin House had the base expectation that Slytherins would weasel themselves out of unfavorable conditions. Slytherin might have been the home of the cunning, but Slytherin always honored sacred promises like a wizard’s duel.

Harry snickered. “They’re so stupid for letting us change the location from the common room to the Trophy Room. I doubt that such a difference between Magicals and muggles they claim exists if Avery is just as stupid as Billy.”

This issue would not have arisen if Avery had stuck with the common room, but Harry supposed that fear was a strong motivator. And quite honestly, even if they had attended, he fully expected Tom to win anyways. 

And so, they waited in their beds, hoping to hear the sound of scurrying feet. Many minutes later, he heard shuffling noises that he guessed were coming from Avery and Selwyn. Another minute passed, and he heard the common room door click open.

Harry craned his ears, hoping to hear something, anything that would indicate Avery and Selwyn were caught by Filch. Unable to resist the temptation, Harry crept forward to the door and pressed his ear into the wood, hearing several indistinct noises that could have been it. He liked to believe that it was the blubbering of Avery and Selwyn and the cackles of Filch.

It was sweet music to his ears, sweeter than the lapping waves against the windows, that helped him fall asleep that night.

The next morning, no one dared hurl mudblood at them. News traveled fast, and by then, everyone knew that Avery and Selwyn had been given detention and hadn’t shown up to the duel. There was blissful, blessed silence. They had finally breached the glass ceiling—exiting the fourth caste.

But they were not welcomed into the Slytherin House as they had hoped. Slytherins were just as icy as before, except that social convention forced them to hide their disdain better.

And entering the third caste did not come without consequences. Avery got his revenge within the following week after their second astronomy class finished.

They had just finished astronomy class with the rest of the Slytherins, and Harry and Tom were trailing at the back of the group, while the prefect Crabbe was leading them back to their dorms. The Lumos Crabbe had lit was barely enough light to keep the students from tripping over their toes.

Harry and Tom made their way down the precarious stairwell that moved beneath their feet, gripping the railing and trying not to appear as if they were hanging on for dear life. They had reached the bottom of the astronomy stairwell and Crabbe halted. They now waited for the next staircase to link up.

Once the two staircases connected, Crabbe walked over, the other students following his lead. Harry and Tom were the last to do so, quickly hurrying over the connection as it began to separate itself. 

Without a warning, a great push on Harry’s chest sent him stumbling backwards up onto the higher steps of the staircase. The two staircases disconnected entirely, leaving them stranded on the upper stairwell, the gap growing wider by second. He almost called out for the prefect before he thought better of it.

A brief glance at Avery and Selwyn showed wide smirks that shined through the dim lighting. He heard Tom mutter a curse behind him, who was also falling beside him.

He barely heard the following whispered incantation. “Cadis.” 

Harry tripped, stumbling forward, falling down the descending stairs, approaching the final steps that hung precariously over open air. As he fell forward, he could see with horrifying clearness the staircase move to a position over open air, all seven floors directly below him, growing larger and larger as he kept tumbling. 

If he fell, nothing would break his fall. Tom would find his broken body seven floors down.

 _Don’t let me die like this_ , Harry prayed, his heart a furious war-drum as it pounded in his body. As he continued to fall, he could begin to make out the detailed engravings and designs at the base of the other staircases.

_This is my end._

A frantically hissed “Strigas!” cut through the air. _Tom_ , Harry thought. 

At once, Harry abruptly ceased his tumbling, freezing on the last step. His head hung over the last step, all seven stories of open air staring back at him. As he lay unmoving, forced into an unnatural stillness, he imagined what his plummet headfirst would have looked like. _Probably with my head smashed open on the stone floor._

The longer he lay there, his jackhammer pulse and pounding heart began to relax, the blood roaring in his ears beginning to abate.

Harry breathed an internal sigh of relief, as he was physically unable to do so. _I’m safe now._

Tom approached him with quick footsteps, and once he could feel Tom’s robes draping against his body, Tom put trembling hands on him. Quickly Tom pulled him back to safety up a couple steps, and Harry felt the steps chafe at his body as Tom struggled to drag him upwards. Once Tom deemed he was far enough away from the baseless staircase edge, he ended the spell. Harry pulled himself to his feet, ignoring Tom’s extended hand. He could do it himself.

Although Avery and Selwyn were already quite far apart from them, Harry could still see that they were wide-eyed and solemn, smirks wiped from their faces. Selwyn swallowed, the dim moonlight illuminating the bob of his Adam's apple. Someone clearly hadn’t thought that his little prank would have led to Harry’s death. 

Harry seethed. He glared at them with as much intensity he could muster, feeling hatred and vindictive satisfaction rise in him as Avery and Selwyn turned back and hurried to catch up to the rest of the group. He promised himself that he would make them _suffer_.

Tom donned an unnaturally blank expression, neutral except for his deathly intense eyes, a promise of a thousand painful deaths glinting inside them.

Before the group was out of view, he saw the prefect glance back at them with cool eyes before briskly turning around and marching away. Harry clenched his teeth. _Fuck him._

Now that the initial threat was gone, despair set in. They were stuck on a staircase, and would be stuck there for an indeterminable amount of time. The staircase could reconnect in two minutes or two hours.

“We’ll be stuck here forever,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. He darted his eyes back and forth at the ever changing scenery.

Tom was scowling deeply. “The staircases better reconnect in two minutes,” Tom muttered.

Harry chewed his lip, staring at the gap between the last steps and the floor below, which was growing larger as they moved sideways. 

“Do you remember the way back to the dorms?” he asked.

Tom said, “I should.”

Harry waited glumly for the stairwells to connect. It felt like thirty minutes before they finally did, Harry and Tom remaining in silence for the entire time they waited, too shaken by the events to discuss just yet. Once they connected, they followed the stairs down into the adjacent hallway, which was dim and vast, the reflections of the pale moonlight their only light source. Cold drafts battered Harry, and he shivered intensely.

Harry froze as he heard a shout. “Oi, you there! Students in the halls past curfew! Students in the halls!” came a holler from behind them.

“Run!” he whispered frantically. 

They sprinted, speeding down the hallway and the following stairwell before finding a small, innocuous closet that they almost passed without noticing. In other words, it was the perfect place to duck into.

“OI!” the caretaker shouted from behind the corner. Harry and Tom paused before the closet, and Harry prayed it would open as Tom struggled with the doorknob.

With a snarl, Tom wrenched the door open. He shook his arm slightly before squeezing himself in the tiny closet that was cluttered with stacks and rolls of old, crinkled parchment, broken quills, and jars of used and unused ink pots. A supply closet. 

Harry scrambled in after Tom, squishing himself against Tom’s body. His head was so close to Tom that he could feel the hot moisture from Tom’s breath, while his arms were smashed against the prickly quills. He winced, but refrained from yelping, the consequences of making a noise first and foremost on his mind.

As soon as he fit his arms and legs inside, Harry slammed the door shut. The thundering steps got closer and closer, and when the caretaker finally reached the closet, he stopped. They could hear as clear as day his mutters of “Where did they go?” and “Detention for a week and a harsh whipping, if I find the rascals!” They dared not breathe or move as they remained there, pressed uncomfortably against each other and the materials of the supply closet.

After what felt like an eternity, Harry began to feel lightheaded. Thankfully, not soon after, the caretaker departed, his steps and other unintelligible mutters signaling his exit. Woozy, Harry tapped Tom clumsily to ask if it was okay to leave. Tom shook his head. 

Only after what felt like another eternity twice as long as the last, Tom nodded. Harry pushed against the door, trying to open it, but panicked as it remained stubbornly shut.

“We’re stuck!” he said frantically, feeling even more dizzy.

Meanwhile, Tom did not look affected in the slightest. “Are you a wizard or not?” he deadpanned.

Harry flushed, some cognizance returning to him.

“Alohomora,” Harry cast, waving his wand as best he could in the limited space.

With a soft click, the closet opened. Harry peeked outside, and, to his relief, there was no one there. He extricated himself from Tom and gingerly stepped out of the closet and into the hall. Harry inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh air, a complete opposite of the staleness of the closet. Tom pushed himself out and frowned as even more rolls of parchment fell out.

With unspoken agreement, the two rushed to shove the rolls back. Once all the materials were crammed back into the tight space, Tom shut the door with a firm push. The two sighed in poorly disguised relief.

Harry exhaled once more, this time despairing that they were completely lost. No matter how well Tom knew the common routes back to the dormitories, they had only visited the seventh floor a couple of times and thus, Tom was unable to memorize these routes.

“How do we get back?”

Tom dipped his head down, lowering his chin slightly. “We’ll descend the staircases and find out.”

They wandered around the halls and descended multiple stairwells.

Once they counted having descended seven floors, they were confident that they were on the bottom floor and wandered around, always making right turns and hoping to stumble upon the dorms. They had made a full circle from four right turns, but they had not ended in their starting point. Resigned to his fate, Harry suggested they try all left turns.

Although the landscape changed slightly from one dim hall to the next, they never seemed to get anywhere important. They did not recognize any landmarks in the halls. 

Harry shivered, feeling the cold creep in as another gust of chilly air blast him.

“I’m scared,” he said plainly.

Tom clicked his tongue against the top of his mouth in irritation. “Don’t say that. We’ll find our way back.”

“How can you be sure? We’ve been wandering for hours!” Harry refused to believe he was wandering around for anything less than that.

Tom leveled an unimpressed stare at him. Harry wisely shut up.

After even more aimless walking, Tom spotted a closed small, hidden door that had an archway adorned with slithering, coiled stone snakes, a sight that Harry missed without Tom’s input. Seeing the signs of Slytherin, Harry hoped that it was a secret entrance to their dorms.

Harry stepped forward and reached his hand out to touch the doorknob. As his fingertips made contact with the silver knob, a flaring, electrifying heat raced up his fingers and arm. He recoiled from the knob, his hand and forearm feeling like it had been badly burned while his shoulder throbbed.

“What?” asked Tom, irritated.

Harry sputtered, “It—The doorknob _burned_ me!” 

Tom raised an eyebrow at Harry, clearly disbelieving of his claims. He put his hand on the door and kept it there, remaining unaffected. He narrowed his eyes at Harry as Harry gaped. 

“It feels fine to me, like any other door,” Tom said. “I think you’re going crazy.”

Harry said sullenly, “I am not. It definitely burned me.”

At Tom’s continued stare, Harry sighed. “Whatever, I want to see if you can open it.”

Tom twisted the doorknob. Nothing happened. He twisted harder. Again, nothing happened. He jerked his hand back from the knob, glaring disdainfully at the door. He tried again, putting both hands on the door and twisting as hard as he could. Nothing happened.

Tom let go and stepped back. He picked up his wand and said, “Alohomora.” The door remained closed.

By this point, Tom was beginning to become annoyed. He stepped closer until his eyes were inches away from the stone snake atop the archway. He glared before pointing his wand again and hissing something.

To Harry’s surprise, the door slid open swiftly without making any noise, revealing a familiar sight of their trunks and robes—the interior of their room. A closer glance at the engraved archway showed that the snakes were now moving, coiled and twined this way and that. 

He turned to Tom and said, “I think you’ve found a magic door.”

Tom glanced at the upper snake again, which was now undulating back and forth, stone rippling smoothly. “Everything in this castle is magic, Harry. But I suppose this is moreso than most.”

Harry shook his head. “I think it only works when someone hisses at it. I mean, the door opened to our room _specifically_.” 

Tom frowned, although he seemed quite distracted. Lost in his thoughts, perhaps. 

“I don’t remember hissing,” he trailed off. “Although it is entirely possible.” 

He stepped forward eagerly to investigate the door, running an admiring hand up and down the back of one serpent.

Harry tugged on Tom’s sleeve. “Leave it till morning. I’m tired.” 

“No,” Tom said resolutely. “You go inside first if you’re so tired.”

Harry harrumphed before crossing the door, feeling a strange sensation wash over him as he did so. He shivered, but stepped across and collapsed onto his bed.

Before he fell asleep, the last sight he saw was Tom hissing affectionately to the top snake.

No matter how hard they searched, they could not find the door again. _It was a one time miracle,_ Harry thought, _due to amazing luck and nothing more._

However, all miracles were paired with tragedies. The good always came with the bad. Harry and Tom had brainstormed ways to make Avery and Selwyn suffer for almost _killing_ Harry, but they simply could not make them happen because any sort of equally harmful retaliation to Avery and Selwyn only would have ostracized Harry and Tom further.

And it was not like there was anyone else as witness, except for Maxwell Crabbe, who had _left them there_. Without any reliable proof to support their claim, they would be viewed as nothing more than attention seeking mudbloods.

 _And,_ Harry mused, _even if there was proof, the Slytherins would turn a blind eye anyways._ That _totally_ hadn’t happened before. 

Tom and Harry desperately needed the protection the model minority myth afforded them. If they deviated even the slightest from being intelligent, well-mannered muggleborn students, then the Slytherins would rain hellfire upon them, even more than they were. (Racism was one hell of a drug.)

It was a lose-lose situation, with no way to wriggle themselves out of it.

Therefore, they had to pretend that it never happened. Harry hated sucking up to the Slytherins and living up to their expectations. He absolutely hated it, but they had no options left.

As the days passed, their hypothesis proved true. The other Slytherins did not attack them any further and the incidents flared down slightly. However, it was an awful humiliation to see Avery and Selwyn with smug smiles in the hallways, worse than the time Mrs. Cole caned him in front of all the other orphans. Each time, Harry struggled to suppress his urge to punch them in the face. Each time, Harry struggled to suppress his urge to make them suffer a tenth of what he suffered.

But each time, he stopped because Tom subtly nudged his legs under the dining table or discreetly tugged his sleeve.

He stopped because if an enraged Tom could control himself, Harry could too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Cadis translates to "you fall" from Latin  
> ** Strigas translates to "you stop" from Latin
> 
> As usual, feedback is welcomed and appreciated! I love you all, readers (and especially betas!! @Sayu and @Vi 👀)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of first year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE chapter. This took at least eight hours to edit... My betas are absolute units. Absolute units, I'm telling you.
> 
> Yeah, hope you enjoy. Lots of worldbuilding and a new character.

**Second Term**

Harry and Tom spent Yule Break at Hogwarts, marveling at the absence of people and vastness of the castle. Out of the entire Slytherin population, which was about three-hundred students, only 15 had remained. 

Without the majority of Slytherin breathing down their back, they were able to talk freely and, even better, explore to their hearts’ content. They inspected floor to floor, looking for special nooks and crannies. They were still trying to find the elusive door, although it was to no avail. On top of that, each night after curfew, they read late into the night, relentless in their quest to conquer the contents of the school library.

The 31st of December—Tom’s birthday—came and passed like any other day. He had a special hatred of birthdays, particularly his own, as he believed there was no reason for such “contrived frivolity.” Moreover, Tom was a penny-pincher, and he did not wish for Harry to spend money on useless trinkets. 

Having spent over a decade together, Harry knew well enough not to get him a present. However, that never prevented Harry from feeling bad about it—Tom always gifted thoughtful presents to Harry because he knew how much Harry treasured the idea of a birthday, regardless of his own feelings on the matter. 

So the duo spent the second half of break finishing homework and reading ahead in their assigned curriculum. The secret to their success was that they mastered the content before it was taught it. It was the only viable method of competing with purebloods for the top spots. Therefore, breaks were the perfect time to rapidly cram content until they were exhausted. 

And not a week later, all students returned to the castle.

On the 9th of January, there was a great fuss in the Great Hall when the paper-owls came swooping in, delivering newspapers clutched between their talons. Tom stole one from an unsuspecting Hufflepuff to see what all the harried conversation was about.

_The Daily Prophet_ headlines screamed _"GRINDELWALD ESCAPES AZKABAN!"_

Harry furrowed his eyebrows at the title. Grindelwald was a hushed name in Slytherin circles. From what Harry and Tom had gathered, Grindelwald was a Dark Lord that terrorized much of Europe in the 20s. However, that was about as far as their knowledge stretched.

Ignorance of contemporary politics was practically a death sentence in Slytherin, since being known as ignorant labeled one as “naive.” Therefore, they went into the library to remedy their lack of knowledge. Of all the books on the Dark Lord, they settled on _Grindelwald: The Rise of a Contemporary Dark Wizard._

> “The Dark Lord Gellert Grindelwald is best known today as a post-Great War revolutionary and terrorist. During his reign, he assassinated political opponents, orchestrated terrorist attacks across Europe, and greatly endangered the International Statute of Secrecy. His political reactionary party, the United German Magical Nationalist Party (UGMNP) infiltrated many European ministries that led to many stricter policies regarding muggles and muggleborns. 
> 
> But who was Gellert Grindelwald?
> 
> Gellert Grindelwald was born in Austria-Hungary in 1883. He attended Durmstrang Institute until he was expelled in 1899 due to his twisted, dark experiments that nearly killed students. Following his expulsion, he was silent for ten years before he served as a German lieutenant in the Great War. After the war, the charismatic public figure used the growing discontent of Dark Wizards in the former territory of the German Empire in the late 1910s to amass a secret army of followers, aptly named Grindelwald’s Acolytes, as well as publicly heading the birth of a German ultra-conservative party, the UGMNP, in late 1920.
> 
> Secretly, Grindelwald promised his followers a return to pre-war Germany through the subjugation of muggles. He pledged to restore prosperity, create civil order, eliminate the influence of muggle-magical financiers, and make the Magical World once more a dominant world power. In return, his followers would enact his every command, no matter how terrible the order. His early acts of terrorism, such as the French Undersecretary’s assassination in 1920, were so discrete that they were not traced back to him until many years later.
> 
> Publicly, Grindelwald acted as the leader of the UGMNP, using his acolytes to recruit more members into the party and later, convert them into acolytes. The meteoric explosion in popularity of the UGMNP caused many anti-muggle and muggleborn laws to pop up, such as the Muggleborn Exclusion Act and Anti-Miscegenation Law in Germany. Furthermore, many European countries created their own versions of the UGMNP, causing Grindelwald’s radical ideals to spread to the Balkans and Central Europe.
> 
> In early 1923, Grindelwald ordered his Acolytes to ravage Europe as never seen before. His acolytes carried out mass killings that left tens to hundreds of Muggles and Magicals dead, always leaving behind the symbol of a circle within a triangle bisected by a line. These massacres greatly risked exposure with the Muggles. Mass hysteria swept across Europe and grew with each passing day the ICW was unable to identify the perpetrators. 
> 
> Because the International Statute of Secrecy became, by all practical purposes, useless, conspiracy theories ran rampant. Some wizards theorized that extremist muggleborns hellbent on revealing wizardkind to muggles were the attackers, while others theorized they were a branch of European Scourers. However, the incompetent ICW was unable to stem the tide of terrorist attacks.
> 
> On August 24, 1925, Gellert Grindelwald was exposed by a bombshell British-French undercover investigation as the mastermind behind the massacres. He immediately fled to Switzerland, leaving the UGMNP to Aurelius Dumbledore. Grindelwald narrowly evaded capture in the following weeks. Yet with his absence, his acolytes’ attacks only grew more frequent and more violent.
> 
> In the period between August 1925 to December 1926, Grindelwald became the number one wanted wizard with every passing month that the prominent wizarding governments of the world were unable to locate him. Unknown to them, Grindelwald had infiltrated MACUSA as Head Auror Percival Graves. 
> 
> In December 1926, Grindelwald was identified as the imposter by MACUSA, which began the slow process of extradition to the ICW. 
> 
> MACUSA explained that Grindelwald had chosen America as his hiding place to try to cultivate an Obscurial for his own gain. Obscurials are young wizards or witches that develop a dark parasitical magical force that causes them to release an unstable, uncontrollable dark force. 
> 
> Many MACUSA officials believe that Grindelwald wanted to use the Obscurial to break the International Statute of Secrecy and expose the North American wizarding community to muggles. President Picquery said that Grindelwald ‘despised MACUSA and all other wizarding governments for forcing wizardkind to hide from the Muggles.’
> 
> Six months after this first capture, he escaped during his extradition when Bryce Abernathy, a MACUSA employee and secret acolyte, switched places with him. Grindelwald flew to Nurmengard Castle with his lieutenant and began his tenure as the most feared Dark Wizard from his headquarters, commanding his army against the ICW and French, British, and Russian Ministries of Magic. 
> 
> A few months later in September 1927, he gave a recruiting speech to a large gathering in the Lestrange Mausoleum. Tensions escalated quickly after British and French Aurors raided the event and killed an acolyte. Enraged, Grindelwald let loose a Fidelity Fire Curse, the catalyst of the 1927 Great Magical Fire of Paris. 
> 
> From 1927 to 1929, Grindelwald spent much of his time as a guerrilla war leader, holed up in the untraceable Nurmengard Castle. The governments of the world were at a stalemate with him: neither side was able to gain ground in the conflict that many simply dubbed ‘The Conflict’.
> 
> For reasons still unknown, Grindelwald’s next appearance was Samhain 1929. Grindelwald personally attacked the Potter Cottage and slaughtered Lily and James Potter. Grindelwald was able to enter Potter Cottage since the Fidelius Charm failed, as the British Auror Sirius Black, the secret keeper and close friend of the Potters, had revealed their location to Grindelwald. Sirius Black was subsequently outed as a spy and one of Grindelwald’s top lieutenants, and he was sentenced to life in Azkaban.
> 
> However, before Grindelwald could murder the couple’s toddler son, Albus Dumbledore, a professor at Hogwarts, apparated to the cottage and dueled him. Dumbledore then brought an unconscious and subdued Grindelwald to the Auror Department. 
> 
> Moments after Dumbledore disapparated, the cottage caught on fire. The twenty-five month old Hyrieus, or ‘Harry’, as affectionately referred to by close friends and family, was never found in the ruins. The blue flames were so hot that the most likely outcome was that even his ashes burned away. 
> 
> The trial of Grindelwald was short and highly publicized. A surprise to all: Professor Dumbledore took the stand to testify for Grindelwald, passionately arguing against the death penalty. His testimony was so influential that enough of the jury voted not for the Dementor’s Kiss, but innumerable life sentences, one for each of his countless victims. 
> 
> Today, many witches and wizards celebrate Samhain to honor Professor Dumbledore and to remember the Potter family. Lily, James, and Hyrieus Potter’s sacrifices that led to the imprisonment of the Dark Lord Grindelwald will never be forgotten.
> 
> Grindelwald remains in Azkaban deepest cells as of December 1936.”

Harry shut the book, a grimace making its way onto his face as he collected his thoughts. Absolutely wonderful. Another racist maniac was free and on the loose. Although, he wasn’t sure what he really expected. First there were mutterings of war in the Muggle world, and now he had to deal with the same issues in the Magical world. It never ended.

It was really too bad that the Potters’ sacrifice couldn’t have kept Grindelwald in Azkaban for longer. 

Harry said, “I suppose celebrating Samhain is useless now that Grindelwald escaped.”

Tom sarcastically said, “Celebrations are always useless. But,” He paused, grabbing the book and opening it to underlined section, and he said, “I wonder how many of Grindelwald’s actions were influenced by muggle politics. A lot of his actions followed the exact timeline of muggle decisions, like the founding of the UGMNP and NSDAP.”

And Harry couldn’t help but agree. Something seemed _fishy_ about the perfect alignment of the Muggle and Magical timelines. 

That week, Slytherins talked openly about their heated opinions regarding Grindelwald. Feelings on Grindelwald were conflicted, to say the least. Prior to his prison break, there were Slytherin Grindelwald supporters and opponents. However, his escape only exacerbated house tensions.

Grindelwald’s belief that wizardkind was superior to muggles was not controversial. But his party’s support for muggle subjugation, nationalized economic policies, and tendency towards excessive violence were. 

However, Grindelwald’s most controversial belief was the UGMNP’s core ideology that wizards should abolish the International Statute of Secrecy was met with equal resistance and enthusiasm.

The richest and most influential Slytherins, children of the Dark Sacred Twenty-Eight families, did not support Grindelwald and his beliefs. The most notable exception were the Rosiers, who were infamous for their extremist views regarding muggles, particularly muggle extermination.

These rich Dark Wizards pointed to his overly idealistic policies and violent track record, arguing that the total wizarding population was just too small to sustainably rule over muggles. They also argued that muggle technology was possibly capable of exterminating wizardkind, and that wizardkind needed the International Statute of Secrecy to keep themselves safe. Besides, these Slytherins did not want to interact with muggles in any capacity.

The other two thirds of Slytherin House were Poor Darks—middle class pureblood or rich half-bloods not of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pedigree. These wizards embraced Grindelwald. They argued that the average Dark citizen was being crowded out by Light muggleborns: inferior witches and wizards that were stealing their jobs, destroying their vibrant culture, and tarnishing their age-old traditions. Grindelwald and the UNMP, they said, could bring back peace and justice to the whole of wizardkind. They dismissed common objections with Grindelwald and the UGMNP’s motto, “For the Greater Good”.

The Poor Darks were correct in that the Dark populace was shrinking. Forty years ago, the total population was fifty percent Light and Dark wizards. The latest census totalled the Dark population as barely reaching 38% of the total population. 

And all Slytherins used Grindelwald’s policies to justify their pureblood supremacy ideology and subsequent discriminatory beliefs and legislation against muggles and muggleborns.

> “In Magical Britain, many pureblooded witches and wizards, especially those of the Dark population, held discriminatory views towards witches and wizards that had married muggles or muggleborns, dating back to the early 1500s with the advent of muggle witch hunts. 
> 
> With the rise of Grindelwald, pureblood supremacy became mainstream political belief. Grindelwald’s main support base was made up of pureblood supremacists, and he used this racist rhetoric to further his cause, although he never explicitly denounced muggleborns or half-bloods, only ever muggles. However, because Grindelwald did nothing to curb these beliefs, most of his followers viewed muggleborns as nothing more than muggles masquerading as weak magic users, and they believed that half-bloods were inferior to purebloods. 
> 
> When Grindelwald fled the UGMNP in 1925, Aurelius Dumbledore became the new party leader. Under his leadership, the UGMNP fostered an environment where extremist sects flourished. UGMNP policies gained traction across mainland Europe, radicalizing previously moderately right-wing political parties across Europe. 
> 
> These extremist sects advocated for muggleborn extermination as well as muggle extermination, deeming it necessary to exterminate the ‘impure’, those who were ‘irrevocably tainted by muggle culture.’
> 
> Because muggleborns were strong dissenters to Grindelwald’s ideology, tensions in European governments heightened. Stricter and stricter anti-muggleborn laws were passed, adding to the discrimination often experienced by these already marginalized groups. Conditions became so bad for muggleborns that a group of communist Light wizards carried out assassination attempts against Aurelius Dumbledore and other high-ranking UGMNP members.
> 
> In response, Aurelius Dumbledore ordered the killing of eighty political opponents, including all of the original dissenters. Hundreds more were arrested in what became known as the Night of the Long Wands. The following laws passed in response were so discriminatory against muggleborns that many German muggleborns and Light wizards fled, seeking asylum in Britain, France, and the United States.
> 
> The state of affairs in the current day Magical Europe hangs in the balance against the two factions.”

\----- ----- -----

**Third Term**

The rest of their second term at Hogwarts flew by. Grindelwald remained unnervingly silent and no major terrorist attacks were carried out, nor were there any acts of retribution. 

_Yet_ , Harry reminded himself.

Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Tom and Harry had risen up the Slytherin hierarchy and found out that the third caste was only marginally better than the fourth caste. They had expected better, but it seemed they had been too optimistic; their classmates were just as intent as before to make their life a living hell. Although they were afforded some modicum of respect from some of their year mates—excluding Avery and Selwyn—this respect only existed if they continued to meet their high expectations. 

When Ostara approached, Harry and Tom signed up to spend Ostara break in the castle. During their glorious free time together where they spent much of their time repeating their Yule Break schedule, they wondered if it would be possible to spend the summer at the castle as well. Tom resolved to ask their Head of House about it.

On the last night of break, Tom and Harry knocked on Professor Slughorn’s door and waited. 

“Come in,” came the voice of an old man.

Tom entered first, hands clasped. Slughorn’s office was large, disorganized, but distinctly homey, a feeling that the rest of Slytherin lacked, regardless of the scattered rolls of parchments on his table and the haphazard vials of potions.

“Ah, Tom, Harry. What do you two need?” Slughorn’s tone was noticeably brighter, no doubt curious in currying favor with his House’s two newest oddities. 

Tom stepped forward. “Sir, I was wondering if there was a possibility Harry and I could remain at Hogwarts over the summer.”

Professor Slughorn frowned, stroking his chin. “I am afraid that I do not have the authority required for that decision. I would ask Professor Dumbledore, if I were you.”

Tom nodded curtly. “Thank you for your time, Professor Slughorn,” said Harry.

Slughorn said, “Ah, no problem. Come back anytime, I love catching up with successful Slytherins.”

When Tom and Harry exited the room and shut the door, Harry stared at Tom despairingly.

“Don’t make me ask Dumbledore,” he muttered, the words muddled but tone resolute. As Tom opened his mouth to respond, they were interrupted.

“Peters,” a soft voice intoned. 

Professor Snape, his mind supplied. Harry turned around slowly, avoiding Professor Snape’s eyes as he did so. “Yes, sir?”

“Look at me.” Harry raised his eyes to meet Professor Snape’s intense gaze, resisting the urge to squirm. It felt like Snape was sizing him up, stripping him to the core and evaluating his fundamental parts. As if he was basing his worth as a person off of what he saw.

Professor Snape sneered, “Do not try it.”

“What do you mean, Professor?” asked Tom politely, his face wiped blank.

Professor Snape twisted his wand between his fingers as he stared silently at Tom. He stood so still his robes did not even whisper as they grazed the floor, and his gaze weighed heavily. 

At last, he said, “He will not grant your request. Do not try it.” 

There was a hard glint in his eyes, the slightest flicker of pained understanding behind the usual black of his threatening, intimidating facade. For a brief moment, his face seemed to age before them, a weary tiredness weighing down his whole being. His lip curled up in his usual sneer, but it seemed an empty imitation after the aching sorrow that had settled so familiarly upon his face.

And then he left, his robes fluttering behind him.

That night, as Harry lay in his bed, Snape’s expression wouldn’t leave his head.

(When Harry told Tom that he didn’t think they should ask Dumbledore the next morning, Tom agreed.)

Two weeks later, Harry was paired with Lawrence Glasson for a research paper. Glasson was a Ravenclaw loner that always sat in the back of the classroom. Harry didn’t think he could remember a time where Glasson’s head wasn’t lowered to whatever book he was reading.

When Professor Binns called Glasson’s name in his monotone, droning voice, Glasson flinched and pushed his glasses up his face. 

Harry sulked inwardly as Tom got up and Glasson walked shyly to him. _Why can’t I be paired with Tom?_

Harry raised his eyebrow as Glasson hesitated in front of him. When Harry didn’t say anything, Glasson tensed his shoulders and gripped his bag tighter.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” Gesturing to the seat, Harry said, “Come, sit.” 

Glasson nodded nervously, a skittish thing, and sat at the very edge of the seat. Privately, Harry was amused at Glasson’s antics. He wouldn’t bite. Not much.

“So, um,” Glasson cleared his throat, “our assignment is on the Werewolf Code of Conduct.” 

While Harry opened his textbook and searched for the correct page, he said, “I can write it, if you’d like. You’d only need to edit it.”

“Yeah, uh, well, that sounds good to me,” Glasson whispered. 

So, the two began to research, pouring over the long chapter and taking notes. Midway through the assigned reading, Glasson shook his head slightly, and he drummed his fingers against the wooden desk.

“What is it?” asked Harry, exasperated.

Glasson seemed to shrink back into himself. “Oh, ah, this here is wrong,” he said, pointing to a line that read _"The Code’s effects were harmless and ineffective in society at large, something the founders, the Wizard’s Council, lamented."_

“How do you know?”

Glasson pushed his glasses up again, gesturing with his free hand. “The Code wasn’t harmless. Societal stigma against werewolves actually increased when no werewolves signed the pledge.”

“But really, how?”

Glasson reached into his bag and hefted a heavy book in front of Harry that was titled _The History of Werewolves in Europe_. He opened the book and flipped through avidly until he found a battered, yellow page. “See?”

> “The failure of the Werewolf Code of Conduct doubled the incidence of hate crimes against werewolves. 
> 
> Many towns adopted the document unofficially, and werewolves were outed and forced to sign their names on the document. Being publicly known as a werewolf led to the dismissal from jobs, shunning from society, and even in rare cases, lynchings. 
> 
> **See Walter Noctiluca for more details.”

Harry blinked. “But then we can’t answer the prompt. I’m pretty sure Binns is looking for us to argue that the Code was highly ineffective.”

“Should we ask Professor Binns?”

Harry squinted at the book. “I think it’s fine. Let’s just continue researching. After all, we have another two days of uninterrupted research.”

“Alright then.”

In their next History of Magic class, Harry brought it up to Binns, who raised his bushy white eyebrows. “I see your point. I will change the prompt,” Binns said at last.

Harry trotted back, satisfied by his success. “Thank you,” he said to Glasson. 

Glasson blinked twice and weakly smiled back. His expression was tremulous and shy. “I’m glad I could help.”

Harry patted Glasson on the shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Glasson scratched the back of his neck, unsure what to say. Harry took pity on him.

“Are you free later?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to sit together and get to know each other more, maybe review some work.”

“Of course!” Glasson quickly blurted. High on his cheeks was a bright apple red, and his eyes were wide and shining bright. “I-I mean, that would be great.”

“Five to six in the library good, then?” Harry smiled gently.

“Y-yeah! See you then!”

They parted ways. Glasson headed to Potions while Harry met up with Tom on their usual route to Charms. Casting a tempus, Harry hurried down the halls after seeing that he was almost late.

“Tom!” he called when his friend’s back came into view.

“Harry,” Tom nodded in greeting. “Where were you?”

“I was talking to Lawrence Glasson, my History of Magic partner.”

“How is he?”

“Really insightful, actually. I’ll spend some time reviewing homework with him tonight.”

Tom said, “You’ll regret it if it turns out to be a waste of time.”

“I don’t think it will.”

“As you say,” said Tom, who pushed harder against the crowds of people in the hallways. Finally, after much heaving and panting, they reached Charms just as the bell rang.

The rest of the day passed ever so slowly, until at last, it was five o’clock. Harry grabbed his bag and walked to the library. Scanning the room, he waved when he saw Glasson.

“Hi, Lawrence,” said Harry, settling down. 

“Hi,” Glasson said, fidgeting. 

“How have you been?”

“Today was alright. I tried to finish some homework before I came, but History of Magic is my weak subject.” 

“Well, why don’t you show me your essay? I don’t mind looking over it.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re fine. Here, just look over mine, see if that helps.” 

Glasson pulled out his parchment and handed it to Harry, who did the same. 

A few seconds later, Glasson said, “See, I wish I could write like you. Your essay is so good.”

Looking up from his own reading, Harry caught Glasson’s eye and smiled widely. “Thank you, but I really don’t think so. If anything, you should read some of Tom’s essays. Every time I think I did well, I read his essays and instantly feel much worse.”

“Tom? As in Tom Riddle?”

“Yes.” Harry’s brows scrunched together as Glasson made a face. “Why the face?” 

Glasson said timidly, “He’s kind of intimidating, if you get my gist. He’s so assertive and self-confident and just- he’s so smart.”

Harry hummed. “Yeah, I can see what you mean.” His eyes softened at the edges. “But Tom’s not bad once you get to know him.”

He grinned. “Want me to introduce you to him?”

Glasson flustered, voice turning squeaky and face reddening. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I—”

Harry waved flippantly. “I’m sure you’ll get along.”

“If you think so,” the shy boy mumbled back.

Harry returned to reading Glasson’s essay. It was really quite good, all things considered.

When he finished, he put the parchment down. “I don’t see why you think it’s bad. It needs a little bit of embellishment in your conclusion and introduction, that’s all. You have enough supporting details and evidence for your claims, and your thesis is solid.”

“Plus,” Harry said as he hovered his quill over a sentence and grinned. “I love the coronation reference here. You get extra points from me. It’s crazy to think it happened exactly two years ago.”

Glasson perked up. “You like muggle history too?”

Harry winked, raising his index finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell Tom. I am absolutely fascinated with King George VI and Queen Elizabeth II. During the coronation, I actually was only a few streets away from Westminster Abbey. What about you?”

Glasson pondered his question seriously, and Harry could almost see the gears turning in his brain. “I listened to it on the radio. My mother badgered my father so much that he eventually gave in and listened with us.”

“You have a muggle mother?” asked Harry, curious.

“Yeah, and my father is a pureblood. I’m a halfblood,” he said. “But enough about me. What were you able to see?”

“Commoners. Nothing but commoners like you and I.”

Glasson laughed, a stark noise in the library. Harry couldn’t help but join in with his own chuckles.

The librarian shot venomous daggers at both of them, and they ducked down their heads to avoid the glare, still giggling softly to themselves.

Harry glanced at the clock, and sure enough, it was six. “Hey, do you want to meet later this week again?” he said as he passed Glasson’s essay back to him.

“That would be awesome,” gushed Glasson, who handed Harry’s back to him.

“It doesn’t have to be schoolwork-related. I can bring cards and teach you some muggle games, if you want.”

Glasson nodded quickly. “Are you free Friday then?” 

“Actually, yes. I’ll see you next time then.” Harry grabbed his bag and waved goodbye to Glasson, and exited the library.

As he was leaving, he caught Glasson’s faint farewell and turned around one last time to wave goodbye. 

He headed to the Great Hall, as dinner began in a few minutes. Pushing through the slow-moving throng of people entering through cramped doors, Harry found Tom already sitting prim and proper in his seat. He walked over and took the adjacent seat, putting his bag at his feet.

Just as he sat down, the platters materialized onto the table. Harry helped himself to a beef wellington and a couple servings of mashed potatoes and roasted carrots.

“How was today?” he asked Tom.

“Fine,” said Tom, his voice oddly absent of something Harry couldn’t quite place his finger on. “Yours?”

“Well, today was alright for me.” Harry replied, still cheerful from having found someone he could relate to/talk coronation with (something along those lines). “I studied with Lawrence Glasson earlier. He’s that halfblood I’ve been talking about recently. He’s not half bad—a genius, actually.”

Tom stabbed his sausage with more force than was strictly necessary, a furrow appearing between his brows that wasn’t there before.

“And Glasson’s pretty shy for a Ravenclaw but super friendly once you get to know him,” Harry continued, watching carefully as Tom’s shoulders seemed to become more tense right before his eyes.

Tom didn’t look up from his meal and instead ate each bite slowly, emphasizing his chewing.

“I can already tell he’ll be great to be around,” Harry continued. “You know, because he’s just so kind. And trustworthy.”

Harry pursed his lips as Tom tightened his grip on his knife, but still remained silent. 

_Why was he so bothered?_

Harry opted to remain silent for the rest of dinner. Afterwards, Harry and Tom walked to their dorm, the air unusually thick with tension.

That night, while Harry lay on his bed and stared at the barely visible ceiling, he asked Tom, “Do you mind if we cancel our study session tomorrow? I want to play cards with Glasson tomorrow.”

“We have a test in two days,” came Tom’s terse reply.

“And we’ve already studied a lot for it,” Harry replied. “There’s no need for tomorrow’s study session when we’ve already mastered the content.

“Fine, if you want to cancel it to play games, you can. But don’t be surprised when you fail.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I won’t fail. I’ll still ace it even if I skip a single study session.”

The next day at four o’clock sharp, Harry packed his bag and slung it over his shoulder. He exited the library and walked to the Middle Courtyard, hoping that Glasson’s directions were correct. The Middle Courtyard was less commonly used than the Entrance Courtyard, but that meant it was less populated and consequently, had less spying eyes.

As Harry passed the Transfiguration classroom he saw a grassy open area. As he walked closer, he could see Glasson motioning from where he was sitting on a towel. 

Harry ran the last couple of feet and sat on the towel. He smiled widely at Glasson.

“Hey Lawrence. I brought my deck.”

“Great!” Glasson exclaimed, looking quite eager and energetic.

“What do you want to play?”

“Do you know Trash?”

Harry brightened and nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah! I love that game. It’s been too long since I’ve played Trash.”

“Why?” asked Glasson.

“Ah, Tom hates Trash. He’ll only play if it’s Egyptian Ratscrew or Poker.”

Glasson frowned. “You should tell him Trash is fun.”

“It’s fine, I honestly prefer only playing Egyptian Ratscrew and Poker with him.”

Harry shuffled the deck twice and dealt ten cards to Glasson, then himself. They both arranged their cards into two rows of five.

“You can go first.”

Glasson picked up a card from the downturned draw stack. It was a four, and he lifted up his fourth card and replaced it. He repeated this with another three cards until he drew a four, a card he had already drawn. His turn was over. 

“Bad luck,” he sighed as he added his card to the discard pile. 

Harry drew a nine, and he was able to replace six cards before he hit a repeat. Glasson whistled.

“I think you stole all my luck.”

Harry grinned. “I might have.”

Glasson chuckled, and drew an ace. Amazingly, he cleared the remaining eight cards.

“I take that back,” Glasson said as he stared at his all upturned cards.

“You want to play another couple rounds?”

“Sure! I can play until dinner starts.”

“Same,” replied Harry.

This time, Glasson shuffled and dealt the cards. 

“This is a nice deck you’ve got. Really good condition,” Glasson said.

“Thanks. I usually have two to three decks on hand at any time, just because I absolutely wreck mine. But these were a pretty recent gift from Tom—last year, I think—so they still look quite nice. Do you own a deck?” Harry said as he arranged his cards into facedown positions.

“I do, but I left them at home. I figured I wouldn’t need a reason to play cards at Hogwarts, what with it being a magical school and all.” Glasson drew his card and began switching his facedown cards.

“You can never go wrong with muggle cards,” Harry said, watching Glasson work.

Glasson solemnly nodded his head. “I’d wager they’re actually better than other games like gobstones or wizard’s chess.” He drew his next card and scowled when it was a repeat.

“Really?” asked Harry. “I haven’t played either of those before. But I’ve definitely played muggle chess.” Harry drew a card from the draw pile and began his turn.

Glason said, “Muggle and wizard’s chess are honestly the same. Gobstones is basically marbles but nastier. The gobstones spray you if you lose a point!”

Harry made a face. “That sounds awful. Why would anyone want to play that? I’ll stick to my nonmagical games, thank you very much.”

Glasson made affirmative noises. “Agreed. I haven’t had games devolve into total chaos because of marbles, that’s for sure.” He shuddered. “My family can get so heated over gobstones.”

“And it’s just a game,” Harry concluded, flipping his last card up. He smirked. 

Glasson groaned, squinting at Harry’s perfect deck of all upturned cards.

“One turn!” He bemoaned. “One turn and you win!”

Harry burst into loud laughter, chuckles rumbling deep in his belly. 

“This is the luckiest I’ve ever been,” Harry said, admiring his cards.

“And this is the _unluckiest_ I’ve ever been!”

“Well, why don’t you check your other cards?”

Glasson flipped his remaining seven cards up. A six, four, five, three, three, ace, two. 

“No way was I gonna finish that. Three threes in ten cards. What are the oods!” Glasson exclaimed.

“You’re pretty lucky in being _this_ unlucky.”

Glasson shook his head sadly. “Don't remind me. I don't think your cards like me.”

Harry smiled and said, “But I certainly like you.”

Glasson’s cheeks pinkened, and he ducked slightly. “I like you too.”

“Friends?” Harry extended his hand.

“Friends.” Lawrence tentatively grasped his hand, and they shook.

“Harry.” Harry swiveled his head to the side, and he saw Tom walking toward him, staring intensely at Harry’s and Glasson’s joined hands. 

As he drew closer, he flicked his eyes to Lawrence, the intensity not wavering a single bit. “Hello, Glasson.”

“H-hi, Riddle,” said Lawrence, his palm growing clammy against Harry’s. Realising their hands were still clasped together, Harry let go of their handshake with a sheepish glance. Glasson looked back nervously.

Tom viewed this exchange quietly with a frown pulling at his lips. He turned his eyes back to Harry. “We should get going.” 

Harry turned to shrug apologetically but Lawrence exclaimed, “Ah! It’s already dinnertime. Mind if I walk with you guys?”

Tom barely opened his mouth to answer before Harry interrupted, “Come with us! I’ve been meaning to introduce you to Tom anyways.”

Lawrence handed his cards over, and Harry neatly arranged them, slid them back into their case, and dropped the case in his bag. They got up and began walking to the Great Hall.

“So,” Tom asked, tone seemingly conversational, “what are your hobbies?”

“I love collecting cigarette cards. Especially the Player’s sets like the Coronation Series or Cup Winners,” Lawrence gushed.

“Really? I don’t think I have any of the Player’s cards, but I think I have one or two Wills’ cards,” Harry said.

“The association football set?”

“I’m not sure, unfortunately. But I can try to get it to you next year if you want.”

“Oh, it’s alright, but I appreciate it. Thank you!”

“No problem. Anytime,” Harry said as they entered the Great Hall. Lawrence separated from them and walked over to the Ravenclaw table, while Harry and Tom walked to their table.

As Harry sat down, he could practically sense Tom’s irritation emanating from next to him. Harry piled roasted baby potatoes on his plate, frowning slightly at Tom’s tense shoulders that betrayed his agitation.

“What do you think of Lawrence?”

“Glasson is alright, like you said,” Tom replied in an unnaturally blank voice.

Harry frowned. He thought Tom would be happy with a possible ally. “He’s a useful friend to have.”

Tom cut his sausage and refused to look at Harry.

_Rude_ , Harry thought as he cut into his potato with repressed annoyance. Glancing to see that Tom wasn’t going to calm down anytime soon, Harry’s frown deepened, but he said nothing.

The rest of dinner was a stiff, quiet affair. Their walk back to their dormitory was even worse.

As soon as Harry entered and shut the door, Tom cast a silencing ward and turned to face Harry. Tom was scowling.

“What is your _problem_?” snapped Harry, irritated. 

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” interrupted Harry. He glared at Tom, eyes blazing with annoyance and the feeling of being slighted. Unwilling to back down, he stood his ground by the door. Somehow, Tom scowled harder, the downturn of his lips a marring scar on his face. 

“Glasson.”

Harry twitched at the name, his anger cooling slightly with his confusion. “What about him? I thought you would like him.”

“He’s a bad influence.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “What, because he likes muggle culture? Lawrence couldn’t corrupt me if he tried.”

Tom repeated himself. “He’s a bad influence.” 

Harry cocked his head and inspected Tom intently. Tom’s eyebrows were slightly scrunched, and his cheeks were pinker than normal. His lips were pressed together tightly.

“That’s not for you to decide.”

Tom growled. “Glasson is _weak_.”

“He’s _shy_ , not weak,” Harry countered.

“He is weak physically and academically.”

Harry said exasperatedly, “There can only be one number one, you.”

“But still, he should try harder. And even if he tried harder, he won’t be able to ever be useful.”

Harry glared at Tom. “Glasson is _quite_ useful. He’s smart, kind, and helpful.”

“He’s a half blood with a muggle parent,” Tom retorted.

“So? I could care less! And for all you know, you could be the exact same—a half blood with a muggle parent.”

Tom scoffed. “Not in a thousand years. But that’s beside the point. Glasson is functionally useless because a Ravenclaw halfblood provides us with practically no opportunities.”

Harry glared harder. “Have you ever considered I just want a friend? People aren’t only valued by their potential worth. Glasson owes me nothing.”

“Sentimental,” Tom sneered. “I thought you knew better than to be so disgustingly emotional.” 

Harry stared at him incredulously, feeling as though he had been slapped across the face. He had changed _so much_ for Tom, had _done_ so much for him. 

For a moment, Harry thought he could hear the faint screams of Billy’s rabbit. 

Immediately after, hot fury flooded his veins.

“I treat people like _individuals_ , unlike _you_.”

Tom’s brows furrowed deeply. “I treat you like an individual,” he said, intensely staring into Harry’s eyes.

Harry turned away and hit his fist against the door. “Sure, you treat me better than anyone else. As your most cherished object.”

When he turned back, he saw that Tom looked puzzled and irritated.

“You’re lying. You know how well I treat you.”

“You don't let me make my own decisions,” Harry retorted.

Tom made a derisive sound. “Is this about being friends with Glasson? That has nothing to do with this. He is nothing more than a detriment to both of us, especially you. He makes you soft.”

Harry clenched his hands into fists and beat them again against the back of his chair. 

“I am not _soft_ —”

“Your emotions run rampant. They control you, not you them.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Tom tightened his jaw. _Fuck you. I’ll be as blatantly disrespectful as I want._

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite. Who almost lost it after Medusa died, hmm?”

Tom reared back, as if he had been struck. 

Immediately, Harry backpedaled. “Look, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry—”

Tom straightened his posture, stalking forwards toward Harry. Hissing, Tom’s eyes were wide with fury.“Who keeps you safe?” he spit. “Who keeps you healthy?”

“I—” Harry flinched as Tom stalked closer and closer. Despite his sudden fear, Harry dared not lean back.

“Who keeps you _happy_?!” Tom yelled, only a few inches away from Harry’s face. His wild eyes froze Harry in place. He could feel Tom’s hot breath on his cheeks.

Harry swallowed slowly. “You do,” he whispered, petrified and frozen and scared and so so _sorry._

“Is _Glasson_ able to do that? Is _Glasson_ able to keep you safe, healthy, and happy?” Tom seethed.

“No.”

“That’s right. I didn’t _fucking_ think so.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” Harry pleaded.

“Mean what?” Tom asked, his voice cold and unfriendly.

_He’s going to make me spell it out_ , Harry despaired. “I didn’t mean _any_ of it. You’re right; Glasson can’t keep me safe or healthy or happy. Only you can. I’m so—”

_“Get out of my sight!”_ Tom hissed, so angry his words were barely understandable, closer to unintelligible hisses than English.

Harry fled to his own bed and buried himself under the covers. He prayed sleep would come soon. (It didn't.)

The following morning, Harry scarcely opened his eyes before he checked where Tom was. Thankfully, Tom was still in bed, and his eyes were closed.

Harry threw the covers off of his body but Tom’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“It is morning,” Tom said, who was still lying down in bed with closed eyes.

“Morning,” said Harry cautiously. When no response came, Harry continued. “I’m really sorry about yesterday, Tom, I swear I didn’t mean it.”

“Perhaps,” came a neutral voice.

“Tom, _please_ , you have to understand, I…” Harry trailed off, unsure of what to say. He began again and said, “I got angry.”

“Because I insulted Glasson,” Tom said.

Harry nodded slowly. “Yeah. Because you insulted my friend.”

“Last night, you also happened to insult a friend,” Tom countered.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry blurted out.

“Even if you were not satisfied by the delivery, you were quite confident in your beliefs.”

Harry groaned. “I was so angry I couldn’t think straight. I said things I didn’t mean.”

“Don’t lie to me,” said Tom. “That’s what you said to me last night, isn’t it?”

Indignance curled through him. “I would never lie to you!” 

For his part, Tom did look a little abashed. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Harry sighed, most of the anger leaving his body. “Next time, please don’t insult Lawrence. Can you at least _try_ to get along with him?”

At once, Tom opened his eyes and sat up. He knitted his brows and pursed his lips. Small pink spots dotted his upper cheeks. “For you, I will try.”

“Thank you,” said Harry gratefully. 

They lulled into a comfortable silence, Tom content to remain in bed while Harry changed out of last night’s clothing. He went to the communal bathroom and brushed his teeth. 

When he returned, he asked, “But why don’t you like Lawrence? What’s so bad about him?”

“I told you last night.”

“No you didn’t.” Harry replied. His eyes were perfectly clear as he stared at Tom dead on. “Those were insults. You didn’t explain your real reason.”

Tom laid his head back against the headboard. “I,” he paused for the smallest moment here before continuing, “feel that Glasson is not an adequate match for you. Undeserving.”

“You think anyone that isn’t yourself is undeserving of me,” Harry snorted. Seeing that Tom would not respond, Harry continued. “You’re only satisfied when you’re the one that holds all of my attention.”

Tom remained silent. It was his form of reluctant agreement.

Harry’s eyes widened.

Tom was _jealous._

Something warm bloomed in Harry's chest.

“I am simply trying to look out for you.” Tom said after a lengthy pause. “To the best of my abilities.”

Harry surprised himself by walking to Tom’s bed, where he crouched and rested his head against the covers.

“I know,” Harry said softly. “I know.” He curled his hands in the sheets, fingers almost touching Tom’s. “Thank you.”

Tom’s hard eyes softened, and he nodded slightly. Underneath the covers, Tom curled his fingers back.

(He wished the sheets weren’t in the way.)

With Tom’s begrudging blessing, Harry spent much of his freetime with Glasson over the rest of May. Glasson was actually a decent conversationalist, provided that Harry talked about topics that interested him, such as Muggle games like poker. Tom never stopped scowling, his jealousy ever present, but he became acclimated to Glasson’s presence next to Harry. However, Harry avoided introducing Glasson to Tom just yet.

As Harry became closer and closer with Lawrence, he was invited to breakfast with Lawrence at Ravenclaw table. He noticed that like clockwork, Lawrence would receive _The Daily Prophet_ and the _Daily Express_ at exactly five minutes after seven in the morning, delivered by two post owls. 

Harry poked at the newspapers. 

“Why do you subscribe to two newspapers?” 

Lawrence put down his newspaper and smoothed out the wrinkles before replying, “I like to compare the muggle and magical news. Sometimes there’s correlation between the events.”

“That’s pretty smart, actually. Especially because you live in a muggle neighborhood.”

Harry took the other copy for himself and read about some unsuccessful economic negotiations with Spain. He finished and put the newspaper down.

“Here, if you really want the newspapers that badly, why don’t you subscribe.”

Harry hesitated before lying, “My parents won’t let me.” The lie glided off his tongue as smooth as butter.

Lawrence frowned. “That’s so strange. But to each their own, I suppose.”

“Hmm, yeah,” Harry said distractedly, his eyes never leaving Lawrence’s copy.

“Um, I wouldn’t mind giving you my copies after breakfast finishes,” Lawrence said. 

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” said Harry, perking up. “Thank you so much, you really don’t know how much that means to me.”

Lawrence smiled. “It’s what friends do.”

_Friends_ , Harry thought, rolling the word off his tongue. 

“For sure,” Harry said, smiling back widely.

From that day onwards, when Harry asked for the news, Lawrence said that he would just hand over his copies at the end of breakfast. Harry readily agreed. With a steady news source, Tom and Harry remained well-read in current muggle and magical affairs. 

After their morning routine, they paid diligent attention and earned house points in their classes as the house cup creeped up on them. And in no time at all, amidst a blur of panicked cramming and route memorization and spellwork drills, the second week of June—subject exam week—arrived.

Their studying came in quite handy for each exam, as the tests were harder than they had expected. At the end of the week, having finished all of their exams, Harry reasoned that his scores were in the top tenth percentile. Though, the only way he could check his prediction was when their results would be mailed in June. And he knew for certain that his scores were not as high as Tom’s. 

Eventually, the final day of the term passed. During the final Hogwarts dinner of the year, Headmaster Dippet announced that the house cup was awarded to Gryffindor for the seventh year in a row, with Slytherin coming in at a close second. Slytherin was only behind by seven points. _What a bummer_ , Harry thought.

Their final morning in their dorm, Harry stared at his neatly made bed with a heavy heart.

“I don’t want to go back.”

Tom lifted his packed trunk and walked over to Harry. He stood beside him, so close their shoulders brushed. And then they leaned against each other, just a bit, until their arms pressed together in a soft, reassuring weight.

Both boys memorized the sights before them: the opulent bedspread, green and silver accented wallpaper, elegant, hanging silver lamp, and cotton rug displaying the Slytherin crest. 

And then they were carrying their trunks out of the dormitories, taking the fleet of boats across the lake, boarding the Hogwarts Express, and pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at King’s Cross Station. 

Under the hazy glow of the setting sun, both boys walked back from King’s Cross to Wool’s Orphanage for the summer, hands aching from the weight of their suitcases.

(Harry hadn’t known his heart could feel so heavy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, feedback is appreciated!
> 
> \----- ----- -----
> 
> If you could pretty please check out my new one shot that'd be really nice <3
> 
> It's tomarry also, strangers-lovers victorian AU
> 
> [Secret Gardens, Auspicious Encounters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29817591)


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